#hannibal x transmasc reader

[defectivevillain]

this winding labyrinth, ch6

chapter six: awakening

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader is not gendered, race-ambiguous, and no physical descriptors are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is chapter 6, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapters 1-5, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: typical fare (canon-typical blood, violence, gore, etc.)

Your greeting falls flat in the tense air. You can vaguely hear footsteps and shouts from the other cells, but it all fades away when you meet those ever-familiar gleaming crimson eyes. For a long moment, there is nothing but horrid anticipation. He’s forcing you to sit in this stifling silence as penance. 

“I’ve been expecting you,” Hannibal eventually hums. It doesn’t take long for you to remember that Hannibal has been expecting you from the moment he turned himself in. You try to envision him rotting away behind these walls, ignorant of the developments occurring all around him. It’s a bit hard to imagine—namely because you suspect it didn’t happen that way. You didn’t need to speak to Hannibal today to confirm your suspicion that someone has been feeding him information from the outside. After all, his surrender was entirely tactical. Hannibal knew what he was doing when he folded his arms behind his head and knelt before Jack—knew what he was doing when he left you with everything but an explicit promise that he would see you again. 

Yes, Hannibal has been expecting you. And you, in some regard, have been expecting him. You weren’t so foolish to think that Hannibal’s captivity would remove him from your life forever—things are rarely so simple. You had a feeling you’d return to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane for a house visit—you just didn’t know when. Indeed, it’s been years since Hannibal’s surrender. You idly wonder if you should be proud of yourself for how long you maintained your distance. This brutal eye contact through glass that feels far too thin; these clenched fists and gritted teeth… They were bound to happen eventually. Perhaps you were just prolonging inevitability. 

You digest his words for a few moments longer, before taking a deep breath. “I’m here to speak with you about the Tooth Fairy.” You announce. Hannibal doesn’t seem surprised by your statement, as he surely knows that you’re only visiting him out of necessity. There is no trace of amusement on his face, yet you can see his twisted delight regardless. He planned for this—painstakingly waited weeks, months, years for you to arrive. You willingly walked into this trap. 

“Did you receive my letter?” Hannibal asks, before you can elaborate any further on the Tooth Fairy. You had forgotten how smoothly Hannibal can manipulate a conversation, steering it masterfully into any desired direction. 

When you manage to process his words, you feel frozen in place. “I… did receive it, yes,” you say, wincing as you’re forced to remember what you’ve spent years trying to forget. You’re thrown back into the uncertain time following Hannibal’s surrender… 

You hadn’t spent long at your house in Wolf Trap—you needed to get away from it all. You hadn’t told anyone about your relocation except Jack, Bev, and Alana. You wanted a break from the caution tape and bloodstains. A break was what you wanted, and a break was what you got: two months of time to yourself. Just before it got to be too much, you were back at the Bureau, continuing your work. The move was a great decision overall. Perhaps best of all, it put even more distance between Baltimore and you. The further you were from Baltimore, the better. 

Then, one afternoon, you returned home to find a letter in your mailbox. You were suspicious at the time. After all, by then, Hannibal was growing to be a popular figure in the news—which had forced you into the spotlight as a result. Even despite your relocation, you occasionally received strange mail from impersonators. You convinced yourself this letter, hidden in a burgundy envelope with an elegant wax seal, was another prank. Still, against your best judgment, you opened it. The elegant cursive writing immediately threw all realistic explanations out the window. At that point, you had only read the first few words—but you knew it was no prank. 

You wanted to throw it into the fireplace and let it burn to ashes. However, the thought of never getting to see the message was even worse. You took a slow breath and moved to your dining table, laying the letter flat and reading it under the dim light. 

My dear,  

You need have no concern as to your fate. You have no better nor more respectful friend than myself.

I have been reading rather frequently these days. There is not much else to be done. I suppose I should instead be grateful that I am provided with books, a desk, a bed, and similar luxuries that the other prisoners do not have. Yet a gilded cage is still a cage.  

Your image wanders the halls of my mind palace quite frequently. Even in the darkest depths of this winding labyrinth, your gleaming eyes tear through the shadows with ease. Your voice reverberates through these confines, drawing me from slumber and compelling me to take measured breaths with renewed vigor. I wonder if I have grown to wander the recesses of your mind in return, slipping into your mind palace despite your most concentrated efforts.  

I do wonder how you are faring. I find myself looking at the night sky through the skylight often. Some of our stars are the same, after all.

Are your stars burning too?  

Yours,  

Hannibal Lecter 

The signature at the end of the letter captured your attention for a moment, before your mind fell to the uncomfortable realization that Hannibal had found your new address. You moved away from Wolf’s Trap to escape your memories, to escape him. Yet he found you with ease, even when in captivity. 

A polite cough brings you back to reality. Hannibal is staring at you expectantly, and you remember that he is waiting for an answer. “Thank you for the letter,” you say, albeit with a bit more irritation in your voice than usual. You don’t have the freedom to say what is truly on your mind, lest he grow disinterested and refuse to give you more information. Regrettably, you’re forced to play along.

Despite your somewhat snippy tone, Hannibal is dissuaded. “Of course,” he smiles, a sharp thing. You truly cannot tell if he is taking pleasure from your gratitude (regardless of its veracity). Silence stretches across the space once more. The two of you are assessing one another. 

“Now, about the Tooth Fairy,” you finally manage to say, “I was hoping you could give me some professional insight.” Hannibal nods and you pull out a crime scene photograph and a picture of Mrs. Leeds, ensuring that nothing is attached to them (Chilton was very strict about that) before sliding them through the mail slot fused into the glass wall. Hannibal gets up from his chair and takes the photographs, studying them with a careful gaze. You think you see his eyes gleam brighter as he evidently looks at the corpses in the first picture and your stomach turns at the observation.

You’re not sure how much time you spend watching him as he looks at the photograph. You get the feeling that he’s luring you into a false state of security by allowing you to look at him, and you can’t get rid of the unreasonable conviction that, somehow, he is watching you right back. 

“And what have you gathered so far?” Hannibal asks once he has thoroughly scrutinized the first photograph. 

“In terms of physical characteristics… he’s right-handed; has blonde hair; and has size eleven shoes.” You recall. “Otherwise, we don’t have much, unfortunately. I’m trying to establish some sort of connection between the two families, the Leedses and the Jacobis. They’re both white, middle-class nuclear families. Not much else sticks out, save for the special attention the killer paid to both of the wives.” 

“The wives,” Hannibal repeats, his eyes now locked on the second photograph you handed him. There’s a strange look on his face—it almost looks like revulsion. You know he wouldn’t be disgusted by the act—he’s committed murder before and will do it again without hesitation, you have to remind yourself. Maybe his contempt is for the fact that he’s trapped, while this killer roams free? You’re honestly not sure. It’s been a while since you’ve devoted significant time and energy to thinking about Hannibal, so you get the feeling your characterization of him may be a little tarnished and inaccurate with how much time has passed. 

“He found the wives beautiful,” you continue, following his gaze to the crisp print. The image is burned into your mind: Mrs. Leeds glances at the camera, shimmering hair flowing down her shoulders. Her eyes are gleaming and her lips are twisted into a conspicuous smile, as if sharing a secret with the onlooker. “He was fixated on them.” 

“A sexual obsession, perhaps.” Hannibal hums. That thought had already crossed your mind, of course—Jack and you discussed it shortly before you left. Even so, an obsession of that nature doesn’t elucidate all of this killer’s actions. 

“He exhibits a lot of the indicators of psychopathy…” You break off.

“Yet, he is not typical,” Hannibal finishes for you. You nod. 

“Not from what I can see,” you admit. “Plus, he left frighteningly little evidence. The few pieces of evidence we found almost seemed to be deliberately placed.” You pinch the bridge of your nose. “He will kill again on the next full moon,” you continue, crossing your arms over your chest. You feel strangely vulnerable standing in front of Hannibal after all this time. “Which leaves us… less than a month to capture him.”

“Jack must be stressed,” Hannibal intuits. 

“Of course,” you acquiesce. It’s a reasonable assumption to make, so you don’t feel like you’re revealing any information by agreeing with the statement. A killer on the loose is never a good thing, and will cause any FBI agent considerable stress. “We all are.” You affirm. 

“Is there anything else?” Hannibal asks. You desperately want to deny him any more information but, damn it, you need some sort of lead on this killer. And this discussion, riddled in ambiguity and riddles and philosophy, does challenge your existing assumptions in a way nothing else has. 

These thoughts convince you to share one more tidbit of information—arguably one of the more important pieces of evidence. “The killer shattered the mirrors at both crime scenes.” You answer. You blink and you’re standing over shards of jagged glass scattered across the ground. The fragments crunch underneath your feet and a twisted thrill runs up your spine, a cruel smirk distorting your face. You blink again and are abruptly thrown back to the present moment, standing across from Hannibal Lecter with only a wall of glass separating both of you. 

“Intriguing,” Hannibal remarks. His tone is rather flat, and you’re unable to tell if he really thinks it’s intriguing or not. You think he must be telling the truth—he psychoanalyzed people for a living, after all. The more puzzling and perplexing, the more entertaining. “Perhaps it’s born out of a sense of frustration. The killer feels disconnected. He feels as if he isn’t where he should be. He may even be attempting to experience… a becoming.” 

A becoming. That’s an interesting way of phrasing it. “But what is he trying to become?” You hear yourself say. You’re not sure if you’re even asking Hannibal at this point, or if you’re just reciting your thoughts aloud. “Or… who?”

“I believe that’s your question to answer,” Hannibal responds smoothly.

The smile on your face hurts and you feel it slide off within moments. You take a deep breath and try to calm your racing thoughts. You’re not sure why you’re fighting so hard to maintain pretense, even now—when Hannibal is caged behind a wall of thick glass. “The biting leads me to believe that he thinks himself to be some sort of creature. Maybe.” You’d venture to guess that he has some sort of physical deformation or abnormality, leading to debilitating self-esteem issues (in addition to a host of other far more pressing issues). The killer holds contempt for how others see him. Yet… he arranged the Leedses so that they were watching him—watching his performance as he took Mrs. Leeds’ life from her. Perhaps he only feels whole when he is committing acts of unspeakable violence. Perhaps… he is striving for some sort of unattainable ideal. And the smashing of the mirror is a release of his frustration with the laborious process of “becoming” that Hannibal mentioned. He does not believe he has achieved his “becoming” yet. You need to do more research. You get the feeling you have more reading to do when you return to the Bureau.

“I’m afraid I haven’t been of much assistance,” Hannibal then says regretfully. His eyes are twinkling and his lips are twisted ever so slightly, informing you that he is feeling more amused than apologetic. You’re not sure why you expected anything different. Any other person would be weathered down by years in prison; Hannibal only seems sharper. 

Besides, it was foolish of you to think you could get all the answers you desired within one conversation. You suppose Hannibal has given you something to think about, at least. Still, it feels as if your visit was ultimately a mistake. All you have gotten is the unnerving confirmation that Hannibal had been waiting for you to appear. He sprung a trap for you years ago, and you thought time would erode its netting. Yet you foolishly wandered right into it. It was silly of you to think of yourself as anything other than the prey. 

Your thoughts spiraling into self-deprecation, you bid Hannibal goodbye and start walking back down the hall. He returns the sentiment, albeit with a slightly different departing remark—likely to imply that you will be seeing him again. You try not to think about it as you continue walking down the hall, but you can’t quite stop your racing thoughts. Besides, there is merit to considering everything you’ve discussed with Hannibal today. There is value in dissecting his emotions and determining his conceptualization of the killer, because it could better inform your search. He may have been withholding information, but his characterization of the killer’s actions as a journey towards a “becoming” is still immensely informative.

You get the feeling that his ambiguity and evasive answers were primarily for the purposes of establishing a need for future conversation. He has given you just enough to prove useful, but not so much that you’ll never come back. You feel somewhat akin to a wild animal that just fell into a trap, successfully earning a reward but sustaining injuries regardless. Your pride is wounded, and your immediate recollection of the trap will succeed in deterring you from trying it once more. But, as time passes and you slowly let your guard down, you will stumble across the trap the hunter has set for you once more, and fall into it all over again. 

You shake your head and continue walking, pretending not to notice the jeering and shouting coming from the nearby cells. It feels as if you’ve been walking forever, but you’re hardly ten steps away from Hannibal’s cell.  Your momentary pause in the hallway seems to tempt one of the prisoners, as he races forward and slams his hands against the bars of his cell. 

You freeze, your heart hammering in your chest. The prisoner is now almost crushed against the barrier, staring at you with enough intensity to melt through the iron bars of his cell. You make the unfortunate mistake of returning his eye contact, and he purses his lips before spitting at you. Disgusted and revolted, you wipe his saliva off of your face with the back of your sleeve. There’s no point in attempting to retaliate—the guy will be confined here for the rest of his life. Besides, your momentary glance at him was enough to inform you that the man is severely unstable. There’s no telling if he even sees you right now—he could easily be seeing a shadow of his past standing under these fluorescent lights, jeering at him with venom. 

You hear a whisper of your name in the hall, but put it down to your imagination and take another step away from the prisoner. You don’t make it far before you hear your name again, and you’re forced to come to terms with the fact that someone has been calling your name. And, not just someone—Hannibal himself. You want nothing more than to ignore his remarks, but, somehow, you can’t take another step. As if a puppet on a string, you feel compelled to return to your original spot in front of the Ripper’s cell. “You have Lecter on a leash, don’t you?” But you’re the one on the leash, and he is the one dragging you back. The walk back to the end of the hall feels far too quick. 

Hannibal is standing close to the glass wall, his gaze flitting across your face. You’re startled to recognize the fury glittering in his eyes and the rage forcing his posture ever straighter. Despite these glaring abnormalities, Hannibal’s voice is unsettlingly tranquil. “Did Miggs spit on you?” 

That must be the prisoner’s name. The last name doesn’t ring any bells, and the man remains little more than a shadowy visage in your mind. Seconds later, Hannibal’s expectant gaze forces you to remember his question. As you process just what he’s asking of you, you realize that you really have no choice but to answer truthfully. There is no point in attempting to lie to Hannibal—not only does he detest dishonesty, but he was also a short distance away from where it happened. He’s only asking out of courtesy. “...Yes.” You eventually murmur.

“How discourteous.” Hannibal frowns. There’s a dangerous gleam in his eyes and it unsettles you. You’re briefly satiated with the knowledge that Hannibal can do no one harm from his glass confines; yet, at the same time… in the back of your mind, you can’t help but instinctively fear for impending violence. 

“I’ll survive,” you say, trying to smile and manifest an unbothered attitude. Your effort quickly falls flat when faced with Hannibal’s insistence. “Thank you for your concern, Dr. Lecter.” You finish with a small nod. 

“You’re attempting to distance yourself from me by referring to me with that honorific,” Hannibal states clinically. His voice is entirely void of emotion now—instead laced with a professional frigidity that you haven’t heard from him in a long time. His mask briefly cracks, as his expression shifts to one of mild curiosity. “Is it working?”

“Not quite.” You mutter. Hannibal must hear your answer, because his lips tug into a smirk for a moment before it is smoothed over. You pretend not to notice—something you’ve been doing rather frequently within this stretch of time that you’ve shared with him. “Goodbye.” You remark, turning on your heel to walk away. 

“I think we both know this isn’t goodbye.” Hannibal says in lieu of a farewell. You don’t bother to respond to that statement (and, secretly, you’re not sure what you could possibly say to that). But your shoulders stiffen as you depart and his voice follows you down the hall, up the steps, and out into the open night air. Even when you’re back at home under your covers, his remark sits heavily on your eyelids and repeatedly pulls you away from a peaceful sleep.

FOOTNOTES:

1. In The Phantom of the Opera, the Opera Ghost leaves the following note for Christine: “My dear Christine, you need have no concern as to your fate. You have no better nor more respectful friend in the world than myself.” Hannibal has absolutely read The Phantom of the Opera enough times to quote it from memory, and that is a hill I will die on. 

2. Hannibal sends a letter to Clarice in The Silence of the Lambs, where he writes: “Orion is above the horizon now, and near it Jupiter, brighter than it will ever be again before the year 2000. (I have no intention of telling you the time and how high it is.) But I expect you can see it too. Some of our stars are the same.”

In the books, Hannibal sends Will a Christmas card, but I had him send the reader a letter to make it relatable for a general audience (aka nondenominational). I simultaneously do and don’t see Hannibal as the type to write a Christmas card. On the one hand, it’s amusing to think about + he absolutely gives off the vibes of someone who writes messages in cursive with a nice pen. On the other hand, a Christmas card isn’t always super personal and I felt that a letter is more demonstrative of the depth of the relationship between Hannibal & the reader. Also, speaking of the books… Miggs is somehow far crueler and his interaction with Clarice is even more unsettling (if you’ve read SotL, I’m sure you can understand why I altered the scene here).

media i've watched/read recently: texas chainsaw massacre, halloween (michael myers fic pending); phantom of the opera (may make this a recurring section in my endnotes, 'cause it seems fun)

thank you for reading!

check out my other works, sorted by fandom.

hannibal taglist: @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 #gn reader #male reader #hannibal lecter #hannibal nbc #hannibal x reader #hannibal x gn reader #transmasc reader #hannibal x male reader #Hannibal Lecter x gn reader #Hannibal Lecter x male reader #hannibal x transmasc reader #you get the idea

[living-dead-author]

Welcome to my third blog I’m Vance and my main is @slasher-male-wife. I’m using this blog to post my nsfw content. Please read the rule and character list below before requesting anything.

Masterlist

Do not interact if you are

Proshippers

Republicans/conservatives

Terfs, transmed, transphobic in general

Under 18

Ed blog

Homophobic

If you fetishize any LGBTQ identity

Will write for

Most kinks (If unsure just ask)

AFAB, GN, Transmasc reader (As of right now I'm not confident in my writing ability for AMAB bodies)

Head canons

One shots

Poly characters x reader

Yandere characters

Fluff

Iffy

Oral

Hard kinks (More willing to write them if they're in a more 'kind' or 'loving' way)

Degrading kink

Daddy/Mommy kink (This could become a no go)

AMAB reader

CNC

Female reader

Public stuff

Semen (Excessive talk of this is a no go)

Never will write about this

NSFW things for underage characters

Anal or penetrative sex outside of oral

DDLG/ABLD/Anything ageplay related

Bathroom kinks like scat, piss, vomit

Dehumanization

Heavy degrading

Anything non-con

Fingering

Feet

Breeding

Detrans

Characters

Horror characters

Black Christmas: Billy Lenz

Halloween: Michael Myers (og or rob zombie), Corey Cunningham

The Boy: Brahms Heelshire

Texas Chainsaw Massacre: Bubba Sawyer, Thomas Hewitt, Nubbins Sawyer, Chop top Sawyer, Vanita "Stretch" Brock

House of wax: Bo Sinclair, Vincent Sinclair, Lester Sinclair

Behind the mask: Leslie Vernon

House of 1000 corpses: Otis Driftwood, Baby Firefly

The Lost boys: David, Paul, Marko, Dwayne, Michael, Star

The Black phone: The Grabber/Albert Shaw

Spree: Kurt Kunkle

Friday the 13th: Jason Voorhees

Child's play: Tiffany Valentine

Re-animator: Herbert West, Dan Cain

Saw: Amanda Young, Adam Faulkner, Mark Hoffman, Peter Strahm

Candy man: The Candy man/ Daniel Robitaille

31: Doomhead

Psycho: Norman Bates

My bloody valentine: Harry Warden

American psycho: Patrick Bateman

Hannibal nbc: Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter

Near dark: Severen

Laid to rest: Jesse Cromeans

Martin: Martin Mathias

The Collector: Asa Emory/The Collector

Thanksgiving: Sheriff Eric Newlon

The Walking dead

Daryl Dixon

Rick Grimes

Negan Smith

Glenn Rhee

Maggie Rhee

Dead by Daylight

Danny Johnson/Ghostface

Pyramid head

Any slasher listed in the above section that is in dbd

Interview with the vampire 1995

Lestat De Lioncourt

Louis De Pointe Du Lac

Call of Duty

Phillip Graves

Simon “Ghost” Riley

Johnny "Soap" Mactavish

Misc. Characters

Johnathan Crane/Scarecrow (DC, based off Cillian Murphy portrayal)

[krytwinkcry]

What I write and what I don't and also intro (pls send requests, I need to post something)

Note: I'm allowed to turn down requests even tough it does fit the stuffs I write.

My name is Nendra, I'm a gay transman (He/They). I like movies and listening to music, some of my favorites are Hozier, Mitski, Tame Impala, Celine Dion, CAS. I'm from Indonesia but ethnically Arab-Indo.

Yes

Male! reader

Transmasc! reader

Gender neutral! reader

Female! reader (I prefer writing m! reader)

Transfem! reader (same as the f! reader one)

Teen! reader

Char x Char

Romance fics

Platonic fics

No

Smut

Real person fics

OCs (the only ones I'll write is mine, if I do)

Any proships (adult x minor, victim x abuser, toxic relationships, etc)

dark! character

FANDOMS (always changing)

MCU

Chainsaw man (manga reader)

Jujutsu Kaisen (manga reader but I forgot some of the stuff)

Gravity falls

BBC Ghosts

The Alienist

EEAAO

NOPE

Avatar (the blue ppl one not the elements)

TLOU (show)

NBC Hannibal

#there's so many stuff to tag #MCU #Chainsaw man #Jujutsu Kaisen #Gravity falls #BBC Ghosts #The Alienist #EEAAO #NOPE #Avatar #TLOU #NBC Hannibal

[macherkissed]

Works In Progress-Updated 02/11/23

Requests-

Bubba Sawyer X Reader; Transmasc!Reader, Smut, Fluff (I need to watch the movie/s but I'll get to it asap)

Morticia Addams X Gomez Addams X Reader; Male!Reader, Mature, Undead Necromancer Reader, Gore Mention, Death Mention,

Hannibal Lector x Reader; Affectionate Reader, Fluff

Jamie Gumb x Reader; TransMasc!Reader, TransFem!Jamie, Fluff,

Yautja x Reader; Smut, Sub!Reader, Exophilia

Mark Hoffman x Reader; Fluff, Comfort

Mark Hoffmanx Reader NSFW Alphabet; Smut

Jason Voorhees and Bubba Sawyer x Reader; Fluff, Physically Disabled!Reader

Slasher Headcanons-Billy Lenz, Michael Myers, Norman Bates; Tall Strong 'Bear' Reader, Suggestive (may become Smut)

Tom Hanniger X Reader; Female!Reader, Fluff, Addams Family!Reader, Dark Themes (Rape, abuse, Traume (Not by Tom)), Protective behaviour

Mark Hoffman x Reader; Gender Neutral!Reader, Reader who blacks out due to loud noises, fluff, comfort

Billy Lenz X Reader; Obsessive reader, obsessive behaviour, suggestive/smut(?)

Rtas 'Vadum X Reader Alphabet

Headcanons-Mark Hoffman x Reader; Drunk Sex, Smut

Michael Myers X Reader; Gender Neutral!Reader, Tall Reader, Angst

Betelgeuse x Reader; Smut

Others-

Michael Myers X Reader; Fem!Reader, Nurse Reader, Multi-Chapter, Slow Build, Eventual Smut, Stalking, Murder, Typical Mikey Stuff

Jason Vorhees X Reader; Multi-Chapter, Slow Build, Stalking, Murder, Possible Eventual Smut (I've not decided yet) GN!Reader??

Charles Lee Ray X Tiffany Valentine X Reader; Fem!Reader, Multi-Chapter, Babysitter Reader, F/F Relationship Slow Build, Eventual Smut (M/F + F/F), Polyamory, Voyeurism

#Works in Progress #WIPs #not writing #slasher x reader #slasher imagines #horror x reader #horror imagines #requests open

[voxmortuus]

hi! if you're still taking requests, can I get a Hannibal x transmasc (pre-transition) reader? I'm struggling a lot interacting with other because of misgendering and the waiting list is taking a long, long, long time.

This has my heart! I'm on this!!!!!! I feel you and YOU ARE VALID!

PAIRING: Hannibal x Transmasc!Reader

UNIVERSE: Hannibal

WORDS: 747

SUMMARY/PROMPT: See above <3

Trigger Warning(s): Dysphoria | Internal Struggle | Talk of Misgendering | Low self-worth | Implied Murder | PLEASE TELL ME IF I FORGOT ANYTHING!!! I want to make sure readers are fully aware of what they are getting themselves into when they read this…

NOTE: Sorry if this isn't what you expected, I'm hoping this finds you well love! PLEASE!! If you ever need someone to talk to about this I extend my inbox to you!

IMAGE CREDIT: Google I DO NOT CLAIM OWNERSHIP OF THESE IMAGES. If these are yours or you know who the creator(s) is please INBOX me and let me know. Thank you.

My Master Masterlist | Hannibal Masterlist | Taglist

REQUESTS: 500 FOLLOWER EVENT REQUESTS ARE STILL OPEN UNTIL AUGUST 15TH!

You're sitting there, fiddling with your sleeves, taking in the scents of autumn, feeling the cool air against your face. All that surrounded you were good up until recently. Things started to take a turn, people that once understood you suddenly didn't, or they just didn't care. You had come into some difficulties in life. Some things were taking longer than others, some progress was made, but even you could only do so much to be comfortable with yourself.

You hated your body; you hate everything about it. It isn't who you are, and you struggle every time you wake up. These things on your chest, this thing between your thighs, none of it matches how you feel, support groups weren't helping; they were only making you more depressed. You stopped going out, stopped having fun, stopped spending time with your family. They just didn't understand and, more often than not, would make it worse.

The only thing that really ever understood you were your therapist and your bookstore. You had regular customer flow, you didn't hire anyone, so you didn't need to pay employees- it was just you, yourself, and the books. Most of your orders were online orders these days, but that was okay; you didn't mind too much. At least you didn't have to deal with the public too much.

Today was a bad day, worse than any other day. You struggled to look at yourself in the shower. You refused to look in the mirror. You refused to even keep your eyes open when slipping on your clothes. Even with your binder on, you just felt like nothing was working. Throwing on an overshirt, you made your way to open the store. Opening up, you put on a smile and sat behind your register and smiled. Well, you attempted to smile.

Hannibal had decided that he was going to stop by, make a 'good moral' visit. He knew you had been struggling, and he knew it had gotten worse. He had grown attached to you, looked at you more than just his patient. Learning about you from the start, you jarred his interest. A customer had entered the building, and from the moment they walked in, you felt a little uncomfortable- something about their aura just rubbed you the wrong way.

The customer had been giving you a hard time, it wasn't even fifteen minutes of them browsing, and you already had enough.

"Ma'am, can I have some help here?"

"Sir."

"You were born a woman, it's ma'am."

"I'm going to have to ask you to please respect my pronouns."

"Do you want my business or not.... Ma'am?" At this point, this customer was becoming more and more unruly.

You take the book from them and look at them. Hannibal had been standing there on the other side of the bookshelf. He let out a breath making his way around and crossed his arms.

"Ma'am, I'm going to have to ask you to leave, please. If you cannot respect something so simple, you're going to have to leave."

"Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"I'm here to support him, if you cannot request a simple pronoun, request you don't deserve to be in this establishment."

"She can just-" the customer was cut off and escorted out. Hannibal locked the door and looked back at you, and smiled.

"I'd ask how you are but, I can see you're having a hard time. So, how about you come with me." He stated.

You look over his face, defeated, and nod.

Taking you back to his home, he pours you a cup of coffee and looks over your face.

"You are valid, Y/N. Your gender is valid, your emotions are valid. You are important."

"I don't feel like it. I feel like I should just give up."

"I will do all I can to push this for you, you deserve to feel whole, you deserve to feel yourself. You deserve to feel like you are valid."

"Maybe I'm better off-"

"Don't even say the rest of that thought young man. You are important. I will make you feel important, loved, cherished. Y/N, You. Are. Valid." He looks over your face and hands you your cup of coffee with a genuine smile.

Looking over his face, you give a smile; you feel whole. You feel that small sense of mattering. He looks over your face, and you smile.

"Thank you."

#hannibal imagine #hannibal lecter imagine #hannibal x reader #hannibal x you #hannibal fluff #hannibal angst #hannibal smut #hannibal fanfiction #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal lecter x you #hannibal lecter angst #hannibal lecter #hannibal #hannibal nbc #hannibal netflix #mads mikkelsen #my writing #my fanfic stuff #tellingyouastory oc #tellingyouastory original #my fanfic writing #fan fiction #fanfiction #my fanfiction #my oc #my story #tellingyouastory #request a story #anon request #Follower Event

[fagrackham]

I posted 23,341 times in 2021

3128 posts created (13%)

20213 posts reblogged (87%)

For every post I created, I reblogged 6.5 posts.

I added 4,123 tags in 2021

#my post - 808 posts

#dingo speaks - 777 posts

#vid - 597 posts

#trc - 502 posts

#tma - 327 posts

#hannibal - 322 posts

#saw - 301 posts

#☄️ - 279 posts

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#photography - 104 posts

Longest Tag: 140 characters

#we ate not very healthy food and watched west side story it was fun n i just finished season two of black sails for the second time n yeah❤️

My Top Posts in 2021

#5

bi girls who write slasher x reader fic and lesbians who blog about abigail hobbs and saw people who reblog gifs of leigh whannell from fifteen years ago and straight girls who get jennifer’s body and transmasc reanimator fans and all transfemmes + trans women ever are the backbone of the tumblr horror community

389 notes • Posted 2021-07-24 14:29:34 GMT

#4

OBSSESSED with this hannibal poster i found at a comic store the other day

424 notes • Posted 2021-02-16 14:39:41 GMT

#3

actually you know what miss piggy n kermit would have ate this

1451 notes • Posted 2021-09-14 01:28:00 GMT

#2

1905 notes • Posted 2021-03-26 17:06:08 GMT

#1

do you think ben and jerry ever explored each other’s bodies

15392 notes • Posted 2021-06-18 18:12:59 GMT

Get your Tumblr 2021 Year in Review →

#my 2021 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review #this is so humiliating

[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

[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

taglist 🖤: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer @gayschlatt69

#male reader #x male reader #hannibal nbc #hannibal Lecter x reader #hannibal x reader #Hannibal x gn reader #hannibal x male reader #Hannibal Lecter x male reader #Hannibal Lecter x gn reader #yall get the idea #transmasc reader #I CAN'T BELIEVE I FINISHED THIS FIC #LITERALLY ALMOST CRIED HAPPY ACCOMPLISHED TEARS LAST NIGHT

[defectivevillain]

this winding labyrinth

chapter 1: suffocation.

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader is not gendered, race-ambiguous, and no physical descriptors are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read that, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: canon-typical blood, violence, gore, mutilation, death, & animal death. the animal death is pretty detailed, so please don't read this fic if you're triggered by that kind of topic.

author's notes: This first chapter is a little bit of a mess imo, but I wanted to post it to assure you all that I don’t want to abandon this fic. It may take me longer to post and update chapters, especially since I graduated from uni (mwahahah) and my schedule may get busy. Still, I really enjoy writing this story—and you all seem to enjoy reading it. Both of those things are enough to keep me going.

Something extremely ironic happened around the time I was writing the last few chapters of Act 1. So… if you remember, in Chapter 6, Hannibal and the reader go on an opera date (of sorts). During that date, the reader remarks that they “don’t know the first thing about opera.” Those words were pretty much taken directly from my mouth. Fast forward to about mid-fall, I get a call for an interview for an internship. I end up doing the first interview, then a second interview… Then I get the internship. The irony? This internship is at an opera house. (What’s even more ironic is that I’m now getting to the point where I do actually know things about opera—I know different productions and directors and technical terms… It’s absolutely crazy. The universe is making me eat my words, lol.

To make matters even stranger, I was in the office for the internship one day and caught a glimpse of a television, which broadcasts what’s happening on the stage. Imagine my absolute surprise and fear when I look up at the television screen with absolutely no expectations and see a single man in a beige jumpsuit with something over his face standing on stage, his shadow silhouetted against the wall behind him. Imagine my surprise when I see that, not only is he standing in an enclosure with iron bars (just like the ones at Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane), but it also looks as if he is staring right at me—and he looks exactly like Hannibal Lecter in captivity. It was simultaneously scary as hell and weirdly reassuring. Anyway, I’ve taken these experiences as cosmic confirmation that I should continue writing this fic. Lol.

Anyway. Back to the important things… I’m planning to borrow elements from both Silence of the Lambs and Red Dragon, but, similarly to the first act, there will be canon divergence and canon non-compliance. Also, as you probably discerned in the past act, there is some plot armor. But, this is fiction.

Your life currently takes two forms: before the Chesapeake Ripper… and after. 

Before the Ripper, the leaf-stained pavement of the Bureau filled you with hope. Walking through the agency’s halls was a testament to the hard work that brought you there. Each assignment was an invaluable opportunity to further develop your interrogation and combat skills. You went to classes, completed assignments, trained, slept, and repeated the cycle the next day. Over and over and over again. But you were happy. 

Life doesn’t feel so simple anymore. You feel like you’ve been fading for a while now, slowly deteriorating as you invest more and more energy into catching criminals. Your work has morphed into an exhausting mutual exchange, one in which you take murderers’ freedom and they take your restful nights. You can’t remember the last time you rested unencumbered by the horrors you’ve seen in the field.

By some miracle, Jack manages to keep the press relatively uninformed about the happenings behind the Ripper case. Everyone is too absorbed with the fact that Hannibal’s in captivity to remember to ask just how he got there, and you’re very grateful for that lapse in memory. You can just imagine the interactions you’d have with paparazzi. Is it true that he stabbed you? Is it true that he purposefully left you alive, only to surrender in your front yard and torment you with the constant knowledge that he will remain in the same place, lying in wait until the moment you will inevitably need him? You shudder. 

Even with all the chaos that comes from the Ripper case—the media coverage of Hannibal and the attention the FBI gets—life goes on. Back at the Bureau, you occasionally lecture the new recruits and you take on assignments along with the rest of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Jack is still wont to call on you at the most ungodly of hours; Beverly still trades lighthearted taunts with you; Brian Zeller still seems to hate your guts, for reasons you’re not quite sure of; Alana and you are back to a steady friendship, albeit with occasional beats of unexplained tension and awkward silence. 

Criminality continues to occur in the Ripper’s wake. You’re not surprised: the imprisonment of one criminal doesn’t beget the imprisonment of another. Even so, it’s difficult for you to proceed as if things are normal. You see traces of Hannibal in each of the monsters you apprehend. Your emotions are starting to eat you alive from the inside. You don’t have a therapist to assist you with those emotions anymore. And, while you think therapy would be helpful, you also know that there’s no way in hell you’d be able to actually be honest with a therapist without being imprisoned yourself. The things you’ve done and the urges you’ve felt…  Neither is even close to a semblance of normality. 

You take a deep breath. You have no issue stopping other criminals, sending them to empty white walls and thin mattresses. Why was Hannibal Lecter any different? You suppose you shouldn’t fool yourself—you know the answer to that question already: you got to know him. Beyond the mask of the Ripper, beyond the bloodied skin and cruel smile… You started to see him as a man, perhaps even a friend. Perhaps, even-

You tear yourself away from that thought process before it gets too far along. The semantics don’t matter now. All that matters is that you’re back in the field, back popping pills for your headaches and blinking fresh horrors from your eyes. All that matters is that the memory of Hannibal Lecter begins to fade away in the face of work— so much so that keeping busy helps you forget the pain. 

Meanwhile, a hundred miles away, a veterinarian walks into a stable under a farmer’s guidance. The two stand over a dead horse and the veterinarian frowns. The farmer explains the horse’s death before stepping aside, letting the professional work. 

The farmer quickly becomes lost in their thoughts. They hadn’t expected the horse to die in the middle of her pregnancy. The farmer swallows past the tightness in their throat and tears their eyes away from the horse. They were looking forward to the birth of the foal, looking forward to helping the mother raise her offspring. The stable air suddenly feels suffocating and they take a look at the veterinarian’s turned back before stepping outside to get some fresh air. 

Moments later, the veterinarian rejoins them. The doctor’s lips are drawn in a tight line and there’s a troubled expression on their face. The farmer feels any remaining composure promptly seep out of them, as the veterinarian suggests they come back into the stable. 

“It feels like there’s something here,” the veterinarian says, their expression conflicted. They touch the horse’s womb with a gloved hand and frown. 

“She was pregnant,” the farmer chokes out, their throat feeling tight again. It hurts to utter the words aloud.

“With twins?” The veterinarian asks, turning around to look at them. 

“No, just one baby,” the farmer shakes their head. Why would they ask about twins? Surely, they don’t feel another baby in the womb. The thought of two deaths is morbid and distressing enough, but three? The farmer inhales shakily. 

“There’s… something else here.” The veterinarian remarks, their face contorting as they feel the horse’s womb once more. They turn back to look at the farmer for assistance. The farmer feels a horrible, inexplicable sense of foreboding crawling up their skin. Despite that feeling, they nod to the veterinarian. The doctor nods in response and turns to the horse’s womb, before making an incision.

The veterinarian unearths the dead foal and places it on the nearby hay with infinite gentleness. The farmer’s chest begins to hurt as they come to terms with the sight before them. Their pain doesn’t end there, however. The veterinarian continues slicing along the skin before stopping and glancing back at them inexplicably. It’s as if they’re waiting for permission to continue. The farmer appreciates the gesture and they nod in affirmation. This mystery needs to be put to rest. 

The veterinarian inhales sharply, sending the farmer’s heart racing. The farmer prompts them to step aside, revealing the horse’s womb. There’s… something there. The farmer squints at it, a gasp ripping its way from their lips as they realize just what they’re looking at. A human corpse lies on the stable floor, a stark shock of muted crimson against the golden strands of hay. The farmer brings a shaking hand to their pocket and calls the police. 

Unaware of these occurrences, you slowly exhale and pinch the bridge of your nose, feeling a headache coming on. You busy yourself with grading your students’ papers, and you don’t learn of the corpse until a few hours later, when the medicine begins to kick in and you’re foolishly convinced that you’ll be fine. Before you can leave for the day, Jack is walking up to you and beckoning you to the lab. The two of you grab Beverly along the way, which leaves the three of you to enter the laboratory that Price and Zeller are currently situated in. When you walk in, you’re immediately assaulted with the scent of formaldehyde. Price explains the situation behind the corpse, how a veterinarian found the body within the womb of a horse. The notion is strikingly similar to the other deaths by suffocation that have been eluding the BAU for several weeks. Jack seems to think the same thing, as he rattles off what he knows so far about the killer. You add things here and there—small things you can notice from the state of the corpse itself—before Price gets the group back on track. 

“I called you here because…” Price trails off, frowning before readjusting his stethoscope and placing it on the victim’s chest once more. The room is deathly silent as he concentrates. “...There’s a heartbeat.”

“That doesn’t come with the onset of rigor mortis—we all know that,” Zeller continues, looking down at the corpse with a somewhat puzzled expression. He seems to sense you staring and looks up, his eyebrows furrowing as his gaze meets yours. “She’s dead.” He announces with complete certainty. 

“She was found in the womb of the horse?” Beverly asks. Everyone else nods and she pauses for a moment. “Make an incision and check the chest cavity.” There’s an unshakeable certainty in her voice and it throws you off for a moment, before you realize what she’s getting at. It’s not unfathomable that something was buried within the victim’s chest cavity. Suffocation seems to be a common theme with this killer. Did they put some sort of dead animal in the corpse? The thought makes your stomach turn. 

“Alright,” Price acquiesces, after glancing at Jack for approval. Crawford nods, evidently attributing value to Beverly’s suggestion. The four of you—Crawford, Beverly, Zeller, and you—watch as Price leans in and makes a careful incision in the chest. For several moments, there’s nothing but a tense silence in the air as Jimmy works. The quiet is broken a few seconds later when Price takes a sharp breath. “I saw something.” 

“Keep going,” Jack demands, bringing Jimmy’s attention back to the task at hand. Price nods and makes the incision a little bigger. All of you are watching in anticipation, waiting for something you’re not quite sure will appear. 

All of a sudden, there’s a flash of motion. A yellow blur flits about the cavity, before reaching upwards and extending its wings to fly out. You watch in disbelief as the bloodstained bird stretches its wings and flies about the lab, colliding with the sheen of the fluorescent lighting and sending shadows flickering along the floor.

Jack is the first one to respond. He quickly paces over to the small window located near the ceiling and opens it, allowing the bird an escape. For a few moments, the bird doesn’t seem to notice: it’s too overwhelmed with the sudden change in environment to comprehend that it has just been granted an escape. It has a chance at true freedom, but it’s too busy taking in the laboratory’s flimsy promises to notice. The bird eventually notices the open window and flies out of it, before Jack closes the laboratory off from the outside world once more. 

The group begins discussing what just occurred, but your mind is elsewhere. You feel a strange sort of kinship with the bird: suffocated beneath rows of ribs and walls of tissue and skin; banished to the space between; too taken with the small allowances to notice freedom within reach. You pinch the bridge of your nose. Your headache is returning, as pressure builds up in your temples and constricts your very skin. It’s significantly harder to breathe. Every time you blink, you’re greeted with the memory of that bright yellow bird bursting from its confines, greeting the stale laboratory air with beating wings. You step outside the lab to get some fresh air, trading your smaller prison for a bigger one—just as the bird did mere moments ago. 

It doesn’t take long for Jack to find you. After all, you’re not hidden—you’re simply leaning against the wall in the hallway that leads to the laboratory. Jack strides up to you, his hands in his pockets and that familiar tight line drawn across his face. You suspect he’ll get wrinkles a lot sooner than everyone else his age—sheerly because of all the responsibility he holds and the pressure he’s forced to perform under. It must be exhausting to be the one calling the shots in these horrible situations. You had always assumed Jack had the easy job, but looking at him now, you think that assumption must be incorrect. He is suffering, just as you are. Perhaps… Jack has just grown better at hiding it. 

The thought makes Jack’s remark slip in one ear and right out the other. You ask him to repeat himself and he sighs. “We need to go to the stable where the corpse was found. There are several police officers there already, but…” But we need to do a more thorough investigation , he doesn’t say. You hear him anyway and nod. Jack walks past you and paces purposefully down the hall, not even bothering to look and see if you’re following him. Perhaps he already knows you will follow him. 

What follows is an awkward car ride. Neither of the two of you attempt to break the tense silence, leaving a suffocating air of uncertainty and indecision. You don’t know what to say to Jack, so you instead busy yourself with looking out the window. You resolutely pretend not to notice your boss’s gaze repeatedly flitting over to you and, after a painful amount of time, Jack is driving up the gravel path that leads to a modest farmhouse and a beautiful wooden stable. 

The place is already crawling with police officers and FBI agents. Unfortunately, the police were the first ones to be informed of the case, which means the FBI is forced to share jurisdiction with them. You know Jack isn’t too happy about that, especially once you see the frown on his face as he watches the police officers clumsily investigate. They don’t have the right training for a situation like this and Jack is delighted to inform them of that fact—albeit with much more sugar coated wording than you would have utilized. A few minutes later, the cops are gone, leaving Jack, you, and the set of agents that Jack requested to follow after your car on the drive over. The other agents are quick to secure the crime scene, while Jack and you decide to explore the premises a little first. 

The property features a small, rather unremarkable house with slightly dirty bricks and a well-loved bench swing on the porch. The front door is agape, revealing hardwood flooring and items strewn about. Jack and you exchange a glance before walking into the home. You don’t see any sign of life until you reach the kitchen and come across an older woman sitting at the table, stirring a cup of tea. You’re quick to show your badge and explain the situation to her. She doesn’t seem to have a great idea of what’s going on, so you eventually decide to leave her be and keep looking about the property. 

Next to the house is a rather large stable, complete with several different stalls and a wide variety of tools. You have no idea what half of the tools could possibly be used for, but the majority of them look as if they’ve been used at least once. There are bales of hay in the corner of the room and various accessories hanging near the post of each horse’s stall. There are only a few horses in the stable—you think you could’ve seen a few in the pastures out back earlier. There’s a horrible stench pervading the air, and it’s not the typical odor that comes from a farm. It’s the smell of death. You look at Jack and he nods, inclining his head and gesturing for you to continue exploring the stable. It isn’t until you reach the last stall—one that is inexplicably larger than the rest—that you find the source of the stench. The rotted corpse of the horse rests at the back of the stall, the womb flayed open. The organs have been removed, but the smell of decay remains. Surprisingly enough, you’re not alone in this stall. A brown-haired man sits cross-legged on the floor next to the horse, a blank expression on his face. 

“...Hello?” You decide to try. There’s no response. “Excuse me?” Still no response. 

You glance at Jack and he raises his eyebrows, before turning to the stranger. “You must be Peter Bernardone,” Jack remarks. The mention of the man’s name seems to be enough to get his attention. On second thought, you remember Jack offhandedly mentioning that there may be a stablehand on site. It seems you’ve found him. 

“That’s me,” the man replies flatly, staring ahead with glassy eyes. He looks as if he’s on an entirely different plane of existence, as he looks at the wall ahead of him with enough intensity to melt it.

“Jack Crawford, FBI,” Jack answers with an introduction of his own. He flashes his badge for a moment before putting it away. You can’t tell if Peter is even paying attention, but you do the same to make him more comfortable. “We’re just here to ask you some questions.”

“I want to talk,” Peter murmurs quietly, just barely loud enough to be heard. He pulls his knees up to his chest; his eyes haven’t strayed from the corpse of the animal in front of him. You feel your chest constrict a little at the sight. 

“Good,” Jack responds with a nod. 

“...To you,” Peter finishes with a gesture. To your complete surprise, he doesn’t point at Jack—he’s pointing at you. Jack blinks in equal surprise, looking at you for answers. You send him a helpless look. At first, you’re not sure why you seem more trustworthy than Jack. Then you remember Jack’s position and the intimidating aura he tends to give off. You think you’d want to talk to someone like yourself too, were you in Peter’s situation. 

“Alright,” you agree. You don’t see the harm in having a conversation. You need information and, more importantly, answers. Jack stares at you for a long few seconds, before exhaling in evident exasperation. 

“I’ll be outside,” Jack promises, before walking away. You wait until Jack is out of sight before you take a step closer to Peter, placing your hands in your pockets. 

“What do you do here, Peter?” You hear yourself ask. Your voice sounds foreign to your ears. 

“I volunteer here,” Peter responds, still facing the corpse. His voice sounds hollow, empty. “Sometimes.” 

“Did you�� know this horse?” You ask hesitantly, looking down at the corpse.

“Yes,” Peter answers without hesitation. There’s a hint of emotion in his voice now.  

“Ridden her before?”

“I don’t ride the horses,” Peter replies, “I just like to brush them.” 

“Okay,” you acknowledge. You begin pacing around the stall in an attempt to calm your restless nerves. “Peter, were you here on the day that the veterinarian visited?” Jack had briefed you on the circumstances of the horse’s death, how a veterinarian had been called to investigate before the corpse was found in the womb. 

“I don’t remember a veterinarian,” he stares ahead with a frown. 

“That’s fine,” you answer. He may not have been there that day. “The veterinarian was the one who cut open the womb and found the corpse… Did you know this horse was pregnant?”

At that question, Peter turns around and stares at you. His hollow gaze is enough to send a shiver down your spine. For a moment, he just stares at you, before huffing in amusement. “Obviously.” 

“Obviously,” you echo. You suppose that was a rather dumb question on your part. “Were you… sad about the foal?”

“Of course,” Peter huffs again. “Why do you think I’m sitting here?” This discussion isn’t getting you very far. 

“Fine,” you acquiesce. You take a deep breath. “This doesn’t seem to be getting anywhere. I’m going to give you my extension, and if you ever feel like talking about what happened, you can call me, okay?” Thankfully, you know for certain that Peter isn’t the killer—the psychological profile you built on this murderer tells you that much. Jack clearly doesn’t think Peter is the killer either, and those two facts are enough for you to rule him out as a suspect. However, you’re still contemplating the possibility of him tampering with the crime scene. 

Peter clears his throat pointedly and you remember what you were supposed to be doing. You grab a notepad from your jacket pocket and quickly scrawl down the Behavioral Analysis Unit’s phone number, followed by the extension to your office phone. You take a step closer and hold it out to Peter. For a fraction of a moment, you think he won’t take it. Just before you can pull your hand back, he takes the paper and slips it into his pocket. 

You turn on your heel and take a step towards the door of the stall, fully intent on leaving, when the door falls open of its own accord. Jack Crawford stands in the doorway, staring at you. 

“Good, Agent,” Jack remarks. This must be important. “We have a lead,” he says vaguely, his eyes falling to Peter. You can’t discuss confidential information here—the details will have to wait until you’re both in the car.

“Excellent,” you remark in relief. “I’ll meet you at the car?” You can sense that Peter’s attention is piqued. Maybe you can still get something out of him. Jack nods and walks away once more. You then turn to Peter, who has turned his body away from the horse to face you. Somehow, he’s intrigued now. Something has caught his eye. “Sorry, Peter,” you apologize, taking a step backwards and emphasizing that you’re a moment away from leaving, “I have to go.”

“What is it?” Peter asks, “Did you find him?”

“It’s classified, I’m sorry,” you respond, ignoring the inexplicable sound of alarm bells blaring in your head. Peter isn’t the killer. “But we’re tracking down this killer. I promise he’ll be put away.”

“You promise?” Peter asks, a dangerous conviction in his eyes. 

“Yes,” you respond without hesitation. You don’t have the authority to make that kind of promise, but you do anyway. The sincerity in your expression must convince Peter, because he takes a slow breath and the tension seems to fade from his form. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Peter. It was nice to meet you.” Peter says the same and you turn to leave the stable. 

“Price and Zeller found soil in the corpse’s throat,” Jack recounts to you as he drives along the highway, moving at a comfortable speed. His eyes are fixed on the road, but he recalls his conversation with Price with perfect consistency. “We traced it to a burial site about thirty minutes from here.”

“Great,” you remark, relief coursing through you. To your surprise, Jack doesn’t respond. Instead, he simply nods ever so slightly and continues staring ahead. Now, it seems as if he’s avoiding something. “What is it?” You ask. Something seems off about him. 

“You may want to brace yourself,” Jack warns vaguely. 

“Why?” You hear yourself question. Jack doesn’t answer, and he’s quiet for the rest of the car ride. When the two of you pull up to the supposed burial site, you’re filled with trepidation. This job always comes with the knowledge that blood and gore could be waiting at every corner. That’s the normal day for an agent. So… why does Jack feel the need to warn you? You grapple with the prospect as the two of you leave the car and join the group of agents circled around something. 

It isn’t until you get closer that you recognize the familiar stench of rotting death. Sure enough, the group of agents is clustered around a hole in the ground—one that houses a woman’s corpse. You stare at the marks around her neck, the dirt caked under her nails and staining her fingertips. She was on the brink of death when she was buried. She was trying to escape. You stare down at the body for another moment, searching for any more abnormalities, before taking a step back to let the other agents resume their investigation. You exchange glances with Jack. 

“She’s not the only one,” Jack says. You stare at the field around you—the grassy, open expanse. It seems to stretch on for miles now. You feel your heart steadily thudding in your chest, at a rate slightly faster than normal. Your head begins to ache. 

“How many of them are there?” You murmur. The question is quiet, as you practically whisper it against the wind. For a moment, you think Jack doesn’t hear it. You then realize that he has comprehended it, but is simply declining to answer. Indeed, your boss stares out at the field with a conflicted expression. “Jack?”

“Sixteen,” Jack responds, turning his attention back to you. You feel something in your stomach twist and pull. 

“That can’t be right,” you remark. It sounds as if the wind is picking up. It takes you several seconds to realize the sound is being conjured by your own mind, and that the air is damp and still around you. You swallow hard and take another look around at the field, suddenly understanding why the agents are now evenly dispersed across the space. They all have shovels and each sound of metal hitting dirt is enough to send a bolt of pain down your temple and through your cheekbones. Your teeth hurt as you watch the unearthing of sixteen different victims. They’re uniformly dispersed across the field. This is no happy accident—the killer meticulously planned for their graves to be close (but not too close). The thought brings a burning feeling to your throat and you feel your knees suddenly buckle. You place a hand on the ground, feeling the familiar horrible feeling of nausea climbing past your throat until you’re vomiting on the killer’s ground. It takes you a few minutes to stop, and even longer for you to fully recover. Your eyes sting and you can’t tell if you’re going to cry or pass out. There’s an overwhelming clarity in your vision and a rhythmic pounding at your temple.

This graveyard is a gruesome display, even to someone who has spent their entire career surrounded by carnage. You’ve seen your fair share of murder victims. You’ve never seen sixteen of them lined up in two neat rows of eight, buried in a nondescript field under layers of muddy soil. Moreover, you can sense the killer’s feelings—and it makes you sick. This was not a gesture born out of respect for the victims. The murderer did not dig up these graves to give these women a final resting place; he buried them to trap them, so that even in death, they would never truly be free. Their existences would be tied to him forever. They would never be allowed to breathe again. It’s nothing short of sickening. There’s nausea stewing in your stomach again, revulsion prickling across your skin, and sweat trickling down your neck.

You can’t seem to push yourself up to your feet. You’re grounded to the damp soil, to the wrong side of the earth. What deems you worthy of living? What deemed these women worthy of dying? Your hands are twitching at your sides. A deep breath causes your chest to hitch and you nearly vomit again. You look down on your body as you claw at the grass and tear it up, shakily pulling at the dirt and plants and grass and rot and death and injustice and horrible, terrible guilt and indescribable anger and vengeance -

There’s a hand on your shoulder. You instinctually tense, your movements beginning to slow. It feels as if you’re suddenly catapulted back into your body, forced to inhabit the itchy, dirt-stained skin and the endless remorse that wants to eat you alive from the inside. 

“They’re dead; there is nothing left for them here,” Jack says. It’s his strange way of comforting you. It sort of works. After a moment, he takes a step forward and extends a hand to you. You take it, allowing him to pull you up. Jack seems to be fighting against the urge to say or do something, because his eyebrows are furrowed and his lips are pulled taut in a thin line. There’s dirt all over you, yet you are still privileged with life. 

You don’t remember how you get back to the Bureau. All you remember is staring blankly ahead as you’re half-led through the halls by Jack himself, his hand on your shoulder providing equal support and increased pressure. All you remember is the worry on Alana’s face as you walk past, the way she gets up from her desk and walks over to you, how she leads you towards the far restroom with a gentle hand. It ends up being the same restroom where Zeller accused you of killing Franklyn. The memory of that encounter is far fresher than you want it to be. 

Alana leads you to a sink and guides your hands towards the water. 

“Allow me,” she remarks, turning on the sink. She steps away for a moment and you stare at the water dripping from the faucet. Alana returns moments later with a washcloth. She pumps some soap on your hands and helps you wash them clean. Your head aches. You don’t know what to think, what to say. All you can think about is the graveyard. It haunts your vision every time you blink, forcing you to think of suffocating under piles of dirt and debris. You inhale sharply, gasping. Regaining your breath is a chore. “I’m worried about you,” Alana soon admits. You hate that her concern makes you feel appreciated. Your relationship with Alana ended years ago. You don’t want to be hers again, but this very moment reminds you of the intimacy you no longer get to see.

“You shouldn’t be,” you remark. Alana laughs under her breath. You both know that’s not how it works. Emotions don’t bend to logic. 

“What did you see?” Her hand on your forearm keeps you tethered to reality. You shake your head, unable to begin describing the scene that will most certainly haunt your nightmares. The two of you are silent for the remainder of your time together under the flickering fluorescent lights, as you try to come to terms with the terrible regret, revulsion, and rage threatening to spill over your frame and inhabit your every waking moment.

next chapter

endnotes: thanks for reading! i'm very excited to continue this story, mwahhahahha

here's a lil sneak peek for the next chapter: “Peter,” Clark practically coos. You hate him, more than you’ve ever hated anyone before. He is a bundle of contradictions: a fine-dressed man with a fine-dressed smile and fine-dressed lies and cruelty and violence and- “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

hannibal taglist <3: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer @gayschlatt69

#Hannibal Lecter x reader #hannibal nbc #hannibal x reader #Hannibal Lecter x male reader #Hannibal Lecter x gn reader #transmasc reader #male reader #gn reader #hannibal x gn reader #hannibal x male reader #gotta cover all the bases

[defectivevillain]

these jagged scars

[ao3 version here] (now accessible to both registered users and guests)

[spotify playlist]

Act One 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.

this broken design | 16/16 chapters | 64k words

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Act Two summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence.  You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts.  Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instincts rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell. 

this winding labyrinth | 5/? chapters | 26.3k words

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

comment down below if you'd like to be added/removed from this work's taglist. the taglist allows you to get notifications whenever I post a new chapter of this work.

#finally adding tags ig so Tumblr stops yelling at me #male reader #x male reader #transmasc reader #gn reader #nonbinary reader #hannibal nbc #hannibal x reader #hannibal x male reader #hannibal x gn reader #hannibal Lecter x male reader #Hannibal Lecter x gn reader #you get the idea #wanna cover all the bases

[defectivevillain]

this broken design, ch7

summary: “Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried. You quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

read from the beginning here! [this won’t make much sense, otherwise]

ao3 version [the formatting is much better over on ao3, thanks to better html]

i've also made a Spotify playlist if you like listening to music as you read :0

As you pull your car into a parking spot at Hannibal’s office, you are very stressed. After all, you went into work this morning under the assumption that it would be a perfectly normal day, only to find Franklyn Froideveaux’s corpse in your office. To make matters worse, you have an ugly feeling that his death is on your hands. You’ve grown to know the Ripper as you’ve grown to know Hannibal himself, and you have to wonder if the encounter at the opera house pushed him to kill Franklyn. In an ideal world, you probably wouldn’t be voluntarily going to a therapy session with the very same murderer who dumped a corpse in your office. Unfortunately, beggars can’t be choosers.

As you walk up the steps and into the waiting room, you can’t shake the thought that Hannibal’s sudden availability is somewhat unusual. You were under the assumption that the man was fully booked throughout the day. Perhaps he set aside time for you? You quickly stop that thought before it turns into the slippery slope of a logical fallacy you know it to be. As you hover awkwardly in the waiting room, you notice that the space is empty—per usual. However, there’s a strange, unsettling aura clinging to the shadows that the chairs cast on the wall behind them. You frown and fidget restlessly, waiting to be allowed inside. You’re sure Hannibal has given you explicit permission to enter when you please, but you still feel as if the door to his office is an insurmountable obstacle.

“Please, come in.” Hannibal’s voice breaks you out of your thoughts. He’s lingering at the door and holding it open for you. Ever the gentleman, you scoff internally. Per request, you pass through the door, ignoring the strange shiver that goes down your spine as you brush shoulders with him.

As you walk into the space, you’re immediately struck by the feeling that something is different—it doesn’t take you long to realize what it is. The chairs are pushed even closer together than last time. You try not to read into that too much, despite the undeniable knowledge that the distance between them has been shrinking each session. You can’t pinpoint a logical reason for Hannibal to push the chairs. You can think of several illogical explanations, but they’re too far-fetched.

“Is this about Franklyn’s murder?” Hannibal is perceptive, as always. Although, you suppose that's a rather obvious conclusion. Anyone would be startled at the notion of a man turning up dead in their office. Your brief encounter with Franklyn a few days ago continues to run through your mind. Should you have done things differently?

It takes you several moments to make sense of your thoughts. Hannibal graciously waits for you to continue; meanwhile, you spend an immeasurable time pacing around the office restlessly. You can’t sit today—you feel like you’re on the precipice of a big discovery. You walk around in circles over and over again, ignoring Hannibal’s heated gaze. You can feel him staring throughout the entire time you’re pacing.

“Something’s missing,” you choke out, your voice raspy from lack of use. You clear your throat and continue. “I tried to see it through the Ripper’s eyes, but… things were missing. I felt his disgust, contempt, and irritation easily enough. But, there was something else… Something lurking beneath the surface. I tried to get at it, but I couldn’t do it. That’s never happened before.”

“Jack seemed to think the murder was committed out of love.” You must react rather ostentatiously at that, because Hannibal raises a brow. “You seem surprised.” He remarks. There’s a trace of amusement flickering from under his carefully crafted mask.

“He never told me anything along those lines…” You sigh. Hannibal has an intriguing expression on his face, as if he expects you to display more of a reaction. It almost seems as if Hannibal is deliberately trying to cause strife and discord between you and your coworkers. You feel rather uneasy about that realization and you instead decide to dissect Jack’s theory. “And… love? I don’t understand.” The clock on the wall ticks loudly, creating an uneasy monotony.

“I imagine the Ripper feels as if no one understands him,” Hannibal murmurs, leveling you with an intent gaze. It feels as if he’s looking directly into your soul. Vulnerable to his dissecting stare, you take a shuddering breath in. The world around you blurs and all you can see is Hannibal.. “No one… except, perhaps, you.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” you say instinctively. Admittedly, your heart is roaring in your ears. The fireplace against the wall is crackling. You pace around a little more, before finding yourself at Hannibal’s desk. You look down at the surface, unsurprised to find that it’s neatly organized. There’s a piece of parchment with a graphite pencil resting on top of it; you look down and realize that it’s a sketch of Achilles lamenting the death of Patroclus. The more you look at the sketch, the more you’re struck with a strange feeling of familiarity. Those figures don’t look like Achilles and Patroclus… They look like Hannibal and you. Unnerved, you look back at Hannibal and try to find the conversation again. “I mean, I’ve just been making deductions about the Ripper.”

Hannibal looks relaxed, despite the attentive manner in which his eyes follow you around the room. After a few more moments spent pacing about, you give in and take a seat at your designated chair. Hannibal’s eyes are glittering when you look over at him. “Your deductions have been correct so far.” You suppose that’s true.

“Even so, that’s not love; that’s just… understanding.” You trail off. Love is a rather large leap in logic, in your opinion. Surely, the Ripper doesn’t love you.

“To the Ripper, understanding is love,” Hannibal asserts, his lips quirking up at the sides. You’re not sure where he’s finding humor in this situation. Perhaps he’s trying to toy with you. Unfortunately for him, you know that he’s the Ripper. Regardless, it appears as if Hannibal enjoys stringing you along like this. You inhale slowly, trying not to fidget and reveal how restless you truly feel. “You are the first person to see through his facade, through the layers of his mask.”

“Oh,” you remark, suddenly feeling as if you were dumped in a vat of cold water. A shiver rolls down your spine and your skin prickles in the brisk air of the office. You suddenly understand what he’s insinuating. You scramble to find something else to latch on to—a diversion that will take you away from the turn this session has taken. The conversation has turned far too meta for your comfort, and you’re unsure how to tread these tumultuous waters.

“I fear the ordinary mind wouldn’t be able to handle his love,” you find yourself saying, breaking through the tense silence that momentarily descended on the space. Hannibal looks up and stares at you with an inexplicable expression on his face. His mask seems to be fastened to his skin rather tightly today. You, on the other hand, aren’t as composed; you’re currently combatting several different emotions at once. You know you’re on the crux of an important, potentially earth-shattering realization… but you’re too apprehensive to accept it. Instead, you decide to indulge Hannibal. You’ll play his verbal games, dodge the truth for long enough that the falsehoods take life and become reality.

“You’re far from ordinary,” Hannibal murmurs inexplicably. You instinctively stiffen, your shoulders tightening. The remark isn’t exactly unwelcome, but it feels like a diversion from the current conversation. You have to grit your teeth and remind yourself not to snap at him.

“That’s not quite relevant, is it?” You frown, feeling your hackles rising. You subconsciously straighten your posture, if only to take advantage of the few inches of distance it gives you from him. Hannibal leans forward in his chair in response. You feel bolted down to your chair, frozen under a predator’s watchful eye.

“Who can say?” Hannibal asks infuriatingly. That habit of his—answering a question with another question—is really grating on your nerves.

“Do you always have to be so cryptic?” You roll your eyes, trying to pretend as if this is just a playful conversation. There are no stakes here. You’re not risking anything by sitting in this office, across from a practiced killer. “I’m horrible with ambiguity; you’re going to have to be clearer.”

“This killer wrote you a poem,” Hannibal declares. After that remark, you can’t help but think back to Franklyn’s corpse—the grotesque mutilation juxtaposing the bloody tears artfully falling down his face. You loathe the fact that you can see the poetic beauty hidden beneath the gore. “You shouldn’t let his love go to waste.”

“You’re being cryptic again,” you sigh, resisting the urge to grab Hannibal by the collar and just shake him. “Besides, I’d argue that his love has already been wasted on me.” You can’t even let yourself entertain the thought of the Ripper—and, by extension, Hannibal— being in love with you. It’s a cruel joke and nothing more.

“Evidently, he does not think so.” You rub your eyes roughly, feeling the sudden overwhelming urge to cry. You wait a few moments before chancing a glance at Hannibal, only to find that he has a perceptive look on his face. “You are not, nor have you ever been, a waste,” Hannibal remarks, as if sensing the sudden negative turn your thoughts are taking.

“That’s nice of you to say,” you laugh sardonically. The laugh is broken and jagged, and it hurts your throat. You’re unable to get rid of the hysterical grin that is inexplicably tearing at your cheeks. Everything stings and burns. You feel horribly inadequate and vulnerable.

“As your psychiatrist, I’m limited to formalities,” Hannibal admits, clasping his hands and leaning forward. His lips are pulled taut and he almost looks concerned. You have to remind yourself of his caring mask. “As your friend, however, I must say that I care for you deeply and that you are absolutely worth loving.”

“Thanks,” you remark after too many moments of silence. There’s an unshakeable confidence in his voice and you really wish you could replicate it. You wish you could see yourself as anything but a burden. You place your hands over your eyes, feeling incredibly overwhelmed. You feel like you’re slipping, like your grip on reality is slowly slackening. What’s wrong with me?  You don’t realize that you’ve spoken aloud until you catch the troubled pull to Hannibal’s lips.

“This world has a lot of wrongs in it, but you are not one of them,” Hannibal asserts quietly. There’s a buzzing sound reverberating through your skull. Your head is pounding, as if you had just delved into your criminal profiling abilities and seen the world through Hannibal’s eyes. You put your hands over your eyes and relish in the brief solace the darkness provides you.

“I’m required to inquire about your wellbeing and safety,” Hannibal remarks. The ensuing silence hits you like a punch to the gut. You keep hoping, waiting for something to happen… but it never does. Why do you still hope? Furthermore, what are you even hoping for? Your doubts are clouding your thoughts, leaving you in a tormented haze of regret, shame, guilt, and grief. Hannibal is required to inquire about your wellbeing and safety—he would not, otherwise. The realization hits you hard, robbing you of breath.

“I’m fine,” you say, repeating the sentiment over and over in your head. Unfortunately, the repetition doesn’t make the feeling any more believable. You pinch the bridge of your nose and take a deep breath. It feels as if the world is crumbling around you. Hannibal’s gaze has yet to leave your face and for the first time, you feel significantly unnerved by the thought. You push yourself to your feet and stand in front of him. Looking down on him doesn’t give you a surge of power in the way you hope it will.

“Pray forgive the discourtesy, but that doesn’t seem to be the case,” Hannibal says, not unkindly. His kindness feels patronizing. You clench your fists at your sides and take a deep breath. Ultimately, you let your guard down too much in front of the psychiatrist. Hannibal is not your friend—he is a working professional who is required to inquire after your wellbeing. No matter how much he may pretend to care, no matter how many opera outings you may share, he is your psychiatrist. It had been easy to forget that in the wake of Hannibal’s constant presence.

“I believe our session is over?” You ask, raising an eyebrow at him and manifesting a sense of confidence that you certainly don’t feel at the moment. Hannibal’s eyes fall down to his wrist and he stares at his watch with furrowed brows.

“Apologies,” he responds. His hand falls to rest on the arm of the chair. Now that the watch has fulfilled its purpose, Hannibal’s gaze is fixated on you again. “I find the time to simply… slip away in your presence.”

You know that if you stay for even a second longer, you’ll give into your foolish hopes. You’ll fall for the cleverly crafted allure that Hannibal has cloaked around himself. You’ll read into every single minute detail, every chivalrous gesture and every warm smile that hides sharpened teeth.

Before you can even begin to contemplate how to dismiss yourself in a socially acceptable manner, your body is moving to leave. You faintly recognize Hannibal asking after you, but you’re exiting the office and closing the door behind you before you can process what he’s saying.

The car ride home passes by in a timeless blur. When you pull your car into your driveway, there’s something that immediately makes itself known to you. There appears to be something taped to your front door. You make sure to exit the car and lock it up before focusing your attention on the piece of paper on your door. Frowning, you take it off and read it.

TattleCrime

The Mark of a Killer: How the FBI’s “Best” Criminal Profiler Killed Franklyn Froideveaux

By Freddie Lounds

A corpse was recently discovered in the office of the FBI’s most prolific criminal profiler; the body was found to be mutilated nearly beyond recognition. The FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit later confirmed the body to be that of Franklyn Froideveaux—who had been presumed missing after a friend reached out to the police in concern.

Froideveaux was dead for several hours upon discovery. Current working theories attribute the murder to the Chesapeake Ripper, and the FBI is insistent on the notion that the Chesapeake Ripper—the dangerous serial killer that mutilates his victims by removing their organs and presumably feasting on them—has returned. However, the victim’s body was found in the office of the same agent that has been consistently embroiled in these murders. Perhaps the consistent practice of “slipping into the mind of a killer” (1) has caused more harm than good. Jack Crawford, head of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, maintains that his profiler did not commit this murder. However, the sudden appearance of Froideveaux’s corpse brings up many unanswered questions (2). Furthermore, inside sources claim that there was little to no evidence left at the crime scene.

Crawford is currently heading an investigation into the murder of Froideveaux, alongside the Behavior Analysis Unit—consisting of Beverly Katz, Jimmy Prize, Brian Zeller, and the aforementioned profiler. The FBI is remaining characteristically tight-lipped about the investigation, which naturally prompts many questions surrounding the nature of the murder and the crime scene’s discovery.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” an anonymous source (3) responds in regards to the culpability of the criminal profiler whose office serves as the scene of the crime. “Jack always had his favorites.” The inside source refused to elaborate further or answer any more questions.

The FBI’s silence has only shed more light onto the possibility that the murder was an inside-job. After all, the headquarters in Quantico are known to be heavily fortified and extremely secure—with tedious security checks and a fully staffed security team. The Chesapeake Ripper seems to be a convenient suspect—he had been presumed inactive for months. However, it’s hard to fathom that the Ripper snuck through the FBI’s headquarters and dumped a body in an agent’s office. An employee or agent, on the other hand, would have the security clearance to roam about the building with relative ease.

For some, the murder of Franklyn Froideveaux comes hand-in-hand with the return of the infamous serial killer, the Chesapeake Ripper; for others, Froideveaux’s murder is yet another secret that the FBI intended to keep hidden from the public eye.

Quote attributed to Jack Crawford, the head of the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit.  

The FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit—which houses the aforesaid criminal profiler—did not respond to TattleCrime’s request for further information.

This source elected to remain anonymous.

For inquiries, reach out to [email protected].

If you have more information surrounding the murder of Franklyn Froideveaux or the killer widely known as the Chesapeake Ripper, reach out to [email protected].

You can’t help but let out a disbelieving laugh. A million thoughts are running through your mind simultaneously. Unfortunately, this is far from the first time that you’ve been featured in a TattleCrime piece—especially when the writer is Freddie Lounds (she seems to have a strange vendetta against you). As is typical of TattleCrime, there is hardly anything in the piece that provides hard evidence of your supposed role in Franklyn’s murder. Finally, you have to wonder how Freddie Lounds got all this information. Jack made sure to keep the discovery an internal affair—or, at least, that’s what you thought. It appears there’s a leak somewhere in the bureau. You think back to the look in Zeller’s eyes when he confronted you earlier. He was likely the “anonymous source” that Lounds procured.

Shaking your head, you walk into your house and take off your shoes. While the article alone isn’t enough to irritate you, the events of the day had already left you in a sour mood. Now, this TattleCrime piece is enough to send you over the edge. You crumple the paper up angrily and throw it into the fireplace. Within a few moments, the fireplace roars to life. The article dissipates and burns to ash, but your doubts still remain.

next chapter

#defectivevillain #hannibal x reader #hannibal lecter #Hannibal Lecter x reader #gn reader #male reader #transmasc reader #hannibal nbc #hannibal x male reader #hannibal x gn reader #etc etc

[defectivevillain]

this winding labyrinth

chapter 2: rebirth

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader is not gendered, race-ambiguous, and no physical descriptors are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is chapter 2, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapter 1, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: canon-typical blood, gore, violence, death, animal death; nightmares, hallucinations, suicidal ideation, dry-heaving, hyperventilation, mental health issues.

You’re tired. Your hands are burning and your calluses sting. You don’t want to speak with your social worker, Clark Ingram. He was assigned to you after you sustained that traumatic brain injury from the horse. You know she didn’t mean it, know that Sylvie was just startled. That didn’t matter—no one listened to you. So here you are, sitting on a scratchy couch in a nondescript office, writhing with the indeterminable urge to do something.  

“Peter,” Clark practically coos. You hate him, more than you’ve ever hated anyone before. He is a bundle of contradictions: a fine-dressed man with a fine-dressed smile and fine-dressed lies. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

You grit your teeth and keep silent. Time drags on, immune to your internal conflict. 

“Is this about the horse?” Clark asks persistently. 

“Her name was Sylvie,” you feel the need to supplement. 

“Sylvie, then,” Clark corrects himself. You know he doesn’t really care, and that is perhaps the biggest offense of all. Why bother saying something if it isn’t genuine? You’ve always had a problem with faux politeness and socially-mandated compassion. You want to skip the pleasantries. Besides, this isn’t about Sylvie. But it is. But it isn’t. But it is. But it isn’t- but it is- but it isn’t-

“It’s alright,” Clark continues, momentarily breaking through the static in your mind. “I understand,”

“You do?” You ask suspiciously. You don’t believe him. 

“I understand completely,” Clark nods wisely. What he says next tears the rug from under your feet. “You placed a bird in Sarah Craber’s chest, and then put her body in Sylvie’s womb.”  You’re taken with an indescribable urge to tear him apart. “You killed Sarah Craber.”

“No, I didn’t,” you immediately respond. You feel a hysterical laugh bubbling up your throat, clawing at your lips and threatening to escape. 

“You killed her,” Clark asserts. You know something about this conversation is horribly wrong, know that a therapist shouldn’t be convincing you that you did something. Still, what is there to do? You’re required to attend these sessions, required to meet this monster’s gaze and play pretend until you’re exhausted. 

“I didn’t kill her!” You hiss venomously. The air around you almost seems to steam. “She was already dead when I found her!” The atmosphere feels terribly stifling. The walls are tunneling in on you, curving to consume you whole. 

“It’s okay, Peter,” Clark says, his voice soft as if he’s trying not to spook you. This realization only angers you further. “I won’t tell anyone.” 

“I didn’t kill her- ” You break off, clarity striking you. There’s a reason Clark is so desperate to paint you as the killer when you’re not. Clark Ingram is the killer those FBI agents are looking for. Clark Ingram killed Sarah Craber and so many more. Is he even a social worker? You suppose he really could be—Hannibal Lecter was a practicing psychiatrist and doctor despite being the Chesapeake Ripper. You saw his name all over the news, coupled with that FBI agent you spoke to the other day who offered you a phone number and a compassionate, patient smile. You think back to the times Clark Ingram has sent alarm bells blaring in your mind—the cruelty disguised by that sharp glint in his eyes, the dangerous gaze that you had always mistaken for an attentive one. 

You want to tell someone, want to run from the room and never stop running, until you’re speaking to Jack Crawford and the same agent as before. You desperately want to stand up, fabricate an excuse to cut the appointment short. But one acknowledgement triumphs over all these desires: no one will believe you. There isn’t a damn soul who has taken you seriously since your brain injury, and your memories of life before then are all an incomprehensible blur. You can already imagine walking into the Bureau—if you can even get past security—speaking to Crawford, watching his eyes squint before he lets out a loud laugh right in your face. 

You stare at your social worker. Clark Ingram stares back. For a while, there is nothing but silence.

Until something in you snaps. You don’t know what happens in the span of those few seconds. One moment, you’re glancing at the tableside lamp. You envision yourself grabbing at the lamp and striking Ingram over the head with it, knocking him to the floor in a heap. The next moment, you’re holding the shattered remains of the lamp in your left hand as you stand over Clark’s crumpled body. 

You’re not usually this reckless. You’ve never harmed a soul before—human or animal. You’ve always considered yourself a withdrawn person, perhaps even meek. Yet here you are, looming over your unconscious social worker as blood slowly trickles from the gash on the side of his head. Thankfully, it looks like he’s still breathing. You don’t know what you would have done with a dead body. An unconscious one, on the other hand, is a different story.

After some contemplation, you reach down and grab Ingram’s ankles. You drag him out of the office, taking brief satisfaction from the various bumps and collisions his head makes with the furniture and the doorframe. You must have some good karma, because there isn’t a single soul in the deserted office building. You bring Ingram’s body out to your car and throw him in the trunk. He doesn’t deserve anything more than that, you think. In fact, you have an idea for something that would even the scales. 

As you pull into the driveway, your plan begins to take shape. You carry Ingram into the stable, your muscle memory taking you to the stall that Sylvie inhabited just a few days ago. You want to be angry, but you have bigger, more important things to focus on. You take a deep breath and crouch down to place a hand on her chest.

Some time later, the deed is done. Blood is speckled across your hands. You briefly feel guilty—not for Ingram, but for Sylvie. The overarching sentiment running through your chest and crawling along your skin, however, is satisfaction. You take a moment to look at your vindictive masterpiece once more, before turning your back. 

With shaking hands, you reach into your pocket and pull out the scrap of paper that the FBI agent wrote the phone number on. For a long moment, you stare down at it. Are the agents really to be trusted? Should you keep this information about Ingram to yourself? You shake your head and pull out your phone, typing in the numbers with care. For a moment, the phone rings and rings. 

“Hello?” A familiar voice answers the phone. “Who is this?”

You take a deep breath to steel your nerves, before responding. “Peter,” you answer habitually, before realizing you likely need to clarify. You think you hear a hitch of breath on the other end of the call, but you put it down to your imagination. “Peter Bernardone.” You clarify. 

There’s a few beats of silence. When the voice returns, it is laid with caution. “Hello, Peter.” 

Soil traps you and locks your limbs, sticking to your skin and refusing to let its presence fade. Every fiber of your being seems to twitch in restlessness and your heart races in your ears. You swear you feel something wiggling on your arm—perhaps a worm. The thought revolts you and you writhe in your natural prison. Dirt kisses your lips, pressing a gentle hand to your forehead and enforcing the insurmountable distance between you and the sunlight. The darkness is not welcome—it is too cold, too damp, too hollow. You blink and there’s a horrible cascading sound. Suddenly, it feels as if you aren’t alone. Your hands continue to twitch and you recoil when you bump against something distinctly humanlike. Turning your head to the side, you come face-to-face with the corpse of Sarah Craber. She opens her mouth and a bird crawls up her throat, wrenching its way out of her mouth and bursting toward you in a yellow blur. 

You inhale in a shuddering gasp and quickly sit up, sweat rolling down the back of your neck as you’re suddenly brought back to your bedroom. You had a nightmare. It was just a nightmare, you repeat to yourself as you wash your hands clean of the unseen dirt. You regard yourself in the bathroom mirror, displeased by what you see. Dark circles bracket your dull eyes. There’s a mark on your face from your pillow. Your scar gleams tauntingly from its position on the left side of your face—Abel Gideon’s farewell gift to you. It had been healing, until the Chesapeake Ripper lived up to his namesake and sliced it right open again. 

You rub a hand over your face and briefly rub your eyes, before pacing out of the bathroom and getting back into bed. As you stare up at your ceiling and will yourself to fall asleep, the killer’s graveyard haunts your waking mind. You can’t help but think of the victims that were buried underneath uncompromising soil, never to breathe again. Jack had warned you to brace yourself, before you came upon the scene. You thought you had. 

Your conversation with Peter the other day weighs heavily on your waking mind, from the moment you wake up in the morning to the moment you sit down in your office. There’s something off about it, but you can’t figure out what it is. He didn’t seem interested in providing you information. Yet, when Jack interrupted and said he had a lead, Peter almost morphed into a different person. He didn’t avoid your eye contact and his voice sounded noticeably brighter than before. You think back to that specific interaction. 

“Sorry, Peter,” you had apologized, “I have to go.”

“What is it?” Peter asked, turning towards you for the first time in the conversation. “Did you find him?”

“It’s classified, I’m sorry,” you responded. Your hackles had risen there, for reasons you hadn’t been sure of.  “But we’re tracking down this killer. I promise he’ll be put away.”

Why does that exchange seem more significant now?

“What is it?” Peter had asked. “Did you find him?” 

“Did you find him?” 

Peter knew the killer was male. 

Normally, that wouldn’t be cause for suspicion. In your experience, men are more likely to commit crimes than others. However, Peter’s statement was spoken with a frightening amount of certainty—despite the lack of veritable proof. That begs the question: how did Peter know? Does he know who the killer is? 

You want to speak to Peter again, but Jack doesn’t seem to think Peter needs any further investigation. You know better, but without Jack’s approval, you’re doomed to your office. You have to simper in frustration. Somehow, you’re sure that Peter knows more than he’s letting on. You hardly got anything out of him last time. Typically, when people are so resistant to questioning, it’s because they’re hiding something. You just need to figure out what Peter is hiding.

Your phone rings, cutting you out of your thoughts. Could it be Peter? You highly doubt it, but you decide to answer the phone regardless. 

“Hello,” you respond, “Who is this?”

“Peter,” the caller responds. Their voice sounds familiar. You feel an ugly feeling slide up your skin. “Peter Bernardone.”

Your eyes widen. You look around your office, before getting to your feet and shutting your door. You return to your desk and try to rip the words from your throat. “Hello, Peter.” 

“Hello,” he responds. He sounds different than before. Perhaps it’s because you’re hearing him speak. He didn’t speak very much last time. Despite the casual nature of the conversation so far, there seems to be anticipation and tension in his voice. 

“...Did you need something?” You decide to ask. It really seems like Peter called for a reason. You know you told him that he could call to speak to you again, but you aren’t so foolish to assume he’s calling because of that. 

“I…” He breaks off, sounding hesitant. The line goes silent for a few seconds, but the time passes with infinite lethargy. All you can hear are your steady breaths, the sound of your pen as you tap it against your desk, and the clock ticking on the wall. You can hear distant voices in the hall and you’re grateful that you had the foresight to close your door. “I think I’m ready to have another conversation.”

“Excellent,” you remark. You wonder if relief is evident in your voice. It probably is—Jack and you are desperate for any new leads on this killer. The last thing you want is for him to kill again and, as of right now, you don’t have much information to determine his whereabouts or his next move. “How does…” You trail off as you glance at your clock. “... an hour from now work for you?”

“That works,” Peter responds. He sounds like he’s had enough of the conversation. You don’t necessarily blame him for being apprehensive about speaking to a federal agent. If you were in his position, you’d certainly be distrustful. 

“Great, see you then,” you answer, giving him an out. He takes it and murmurs a goodbye, before the line goes dead. For a moment, you sit at your desk, your mind reeling. While you had provided your phone number to Peter for that express purpose, you hadn’t expected him to actually take you up on the offer to divulge more information. 

An equal rush of adrenaline and trepidation runs through you. The adrenaline wins out, as you get to your feet and pace over to Jack’s office. It isn’t a long distance, and you soon find yourself opening his office door. 

“Jack,” you start. Your boss looks up from his computer. “Peter called.” 

“What?” He asks. 

“Peter called my extension,” you elaborate, before you can grasp the consequences of doing so. In hindsight, perhaps you shouldn’t be admitting to sharing your agency-assigned phone number with a member of the public. Perhaps that’s why Jack’s eyes go so wide. 

“What?” Jack hisses. He looks like he’ll burst a vein in his neck. “Agent, that number is confidential and should only be shared with other government employees and officials.”

“Never mind that, Jack,” you interject before he can continue scolding you. That’s not important—at least, not right now. You’re sure you’ll have to sit through a lengthy lecture later on, when you have the luxury to sit down and think about trivialities. “He said he was ready to have another conversation.” 

Jack stills. He knows how important another conversation could be, but he seems to be battling against the instinct to reprimand you. You stare at him and, after a few moments, he sighs. Jack looks up from his glasses, which are gradually slipping down his face. “You’re not going to get anything more from him,” he says resignedly. You rejoice internally. That remark is a sign that, although he isn’t happy about it, Jack will permit you to speak with Peter. 

“I think I’ll get something from him,” you assert. You don’t think you’ll get more information—you know you will. Peter wouldn’t be calling unless he were willing, in some regard, to give you something. You’ll take almost anything at this point—anything that will free you from the muddied cages of damp soil and suffocation that haunt your nightmares. 

“Fine,” Jack sighs, knowing there’s no point for further argument. He certainly doesn’t look amused, but he seems to have given up now.  “Read over his file before you go.” Jack goes into his desk and retrieves the file, which you take with a murmured thanks. 

In the coming minutes, you learn more about Peter Bernardone than you could have ever hoped to know. The most useful piece of information doesn’t concern Peter, though. You look down at his listed social worker, frowning at the picture. The man looks innocuous enough upon first glance. Ingram is just about the only other person mentioned in Peter’s file, aside from a sibling that hasn’t been in contact with Peter for several years. Has this social worker, Clark Ingram, been brought in? 

“Did you speak to Clark Ingram?” You ask. Jack’s gaze is fixated on his computer. For a moment, you contemplate asking again, but then he responds.

“We spoke to him for a bit, but didn't come back with anything.” Jack responds. He doesn’t look persuaded, and you don’t think you’re convinced either. There’s something about the look in Ingram’s eyes in the photo… It looks as if there’s a hidden depth beneath that expression on his face, something he isn’t telling anyone. Indeed, he looks ever so slightly smug.

“Might have to pay him a visit,” you remark. Maybe you can do that after you speak with Peter. Your best lead right now is definitely Peter, but Ingram may be a good backup plan in case Peter clams up or suddenly decides to remain silent. Jack seems to think the same, because he nods silently. Armed with information, you send Jack a mock-salute and leave his office. As you walk through the Bureau’s halls and return to your car, you think about everything that has made up the case against this killer so far. You review evidence, circumstances, and backgrounds on the victims as you drive to the stable Peter works at. He hadn’t specified a location for your conversation, you’re realizing as you continue driving. If he isn’t here, you’re going to be in for an earful from Jack. You’re willing to take that risk, though. 

Some time later, you pull into the parking lot next to an unassuming SUV and park. You steal a few seconds to take some deep breaths as you wait in your car. Your hand is wrapped around your keys and you close your eyes, tilting your head down and trying to remember why you’ve come here. You’re not recalling your purpose for the visit, but instead, the purpose behind your decision to pursue a career as an FBI agent. You wanted to make a difference. You’re getting that chance right now, and you can’t blow it. Your shoulders almost feel tight from the intangible pressure that has been thrown onto you. Thankfully, you’ve grown to be comfortable working under pressure. The life of an FBI agent isn’t convenient or relaxed—the pacing of your work is extremely sporadic, and you’re expected to be “on” and ready at all times. 

Shaking your head, you step out of your car and walk up the dirt path to the stable. When you open the doors, you’re unsurprised to find a rider with her horse. You nod at her as you walk in, pretending not to notice how her gaze burns into your back when you pass her. Somehow, you know where Peter will be. You pass several different stalls, before reaching the one he was in a mere few days ago. The plaque on the stall says “Sylvie,” which must’ve been the horse’s name. You knock on the closed stable door and, after a few moments, decide to open it. 

Peter is in nearly the same exact position as before, with his back turned to the door and his eyes evidently fixated on the horse’s corpse. 

“Hello, Peter,” you remark. Peter doesn’t respond. You give him a few moments, before taking a few steps forward to break the distance between you. With your newfound position, you’re able to see his expression. To your surprise, the look on his face is slightly… different than the last time you saw him. Before, he had looked devastated, heartbroken, destroyed. Now, he almost looks… at peace. How could he have pivoted so intensely in such a short period of time? Something about his disposition unsettles you. “You wanted to speak with me.” You remind him. 

For a long moment, there is nothing but silence and anticipation. Then, Peter speaks. “I… wanted to heal her.” 

“You… wanted to heal her,” you repeat. What or who did he want to heal? Your initial reaction is that he wanted to heal Sylvie, but that doesn't sound right. She was already dead by the time Peter arrived, so anything he could’ve done would’ve been pointless. Is he referring to… the victim? “Sarah Craber?” You ask. 

“Yes,” he responds hollowly. His gaze is still locked on the horse’s corpse.

Somehow, it’s taken you this long to realize that you’ve underestimated Peter’s role in the events that transpired that day. “You were the one to put the bird in her chest,” you realize aloud. Yellow fluttering wings rush across your vision. Peter nods quietly. You’re not surprised. You should’ve made the connection sooner—should’ve thought of the bird as a gesture made out of kindness, not maleficence.

You’re sidetracked by the strange conviction that something in this stall has changed since the last time you were here. You try to rack your brain for the juxtaposition that is occupying your attention. Peter is here still, wearing similar attire and lingering in about the same position as before. There’s you, standing a bit closer than you were last time. There’s still hay strewn about the floor. The horse’s corpse remains against the wall, and the stench is beginning to grow more pervasive. The corpse looks the same, with the womb stitched up and the entrails hidden from sight. 

Hidden from sight? You take another look at the corpse. Last time you were here, the horse’s womb was exposed and the entrails were everywhere. Now, there’s no sign of blood or innards. Indeed, the stall’s floor is missing any sign of the gruesome scene from before. It’s not unthinkable to think that someone could have cleaned it up, but the horse’s womb looks entirely different. In fact, it almost looks as if someone stitched it back together. There’s no sign of the dead foal, but you suspect it was placed back in the womb. 

“Peter, did someone come through here and stitch her womb back together?”  You ask. 

“I don’t know.” Peter answers. It’s a lie. You can tell from the way his posture shifts, his shoulders falling ever so slightly as he almost seems to cower in on himself to avoid your gaze. 

“Did you sew her back up, Peter?”  You question. Peter stiffens and you realize you may have worded your statement indelicately. You scramble to find a better way to say it. “Did… did you heal her?” 

This prompts Peter’s attention. The man turns around, staring at you with wide eyes. His eyes look ever so slightly glassy and he stares at you for several moments, before jerking his head in a slight and nearly imperceptible nod. 

“Thank you for being honest with me,” you choke out. Your heart is still racing in your chest, despite Peter’s confession. Why are you still so unsettled and unnerved? The mystery surrounding the corpse has been cleared up. But it still feels as if something is missing. What could it be? 

“You’re not… angry?” Peter then asks quietly. You blink at him. 

“I’m not angry, Peter.” You reassure him. He seems to believe you once you utter the statement, and you watch as a little bit of the tension slips from his shoulders. There is still something that is bothering him, you think. “Now, why did you call me here?” 

“I… wanted to ask about my social worker,” Peter trails off. His back is turned again. Maybe he doesn’t like the idea of having a social worker. Maybe he’s uncomfortable talking about it. Amidst your speculation, one thing is for certain: this is a sore spot for him. 

“Clark Ingram?” You question. “What about him?”

“Has he been called in for questioning?” Peter remarks. 

You probably shouldn’t be telling him anything, but you know that this needs to be an exchange in order for Peter to feel comfortable sharing information with you. Sometimes, you have to give a little to get a little. “Yes,” you say. You decide to leave it at that and wait for Peter to clarify. 

“I think he… may have a role in all this,” Peter evidently settles for saying. He sounds hesitant.

“How come?” 

“There’s something off…” Peter begins, “in his eyes. The way he speaks to me, looks at me. Sometimes, he stares at me like…” He breaks off. Like you’re a test subject? Like you’re an intriguing new science experiment? Like you hold the very world in your hands?  “I’m probably not making much sense,” Peter suddenly acquiesces, rubbing a hand over his face. He seems self-conscious and anxious all of a sudden. If this continues, he won't be comfortable sharing any more information with you. You need to express that you understand him. And if a smaller part of you truly does empathize with him, empathize with being treated as an oddity… no one needs to know. 

“No, I know what you’re talking about.” You say. Peter turns and looks at you. 

“Really?”

“......Yes,” you remark. It takes you a little while to force the words out. You don’t speak on any of your thoughts, don’t want to monopolize the conversation or change the subject. Still, you are familiar with an attentive gaze that penetrates your mental defenses, leaving you uncomfortably vulnerable and raw in its wake. You are more than familiar with the shadows that beckon you closer, calling for you to do unspeakable things to the chessmaster sitting across from you in a dimly-lit office. 

“I just came from a session with him,” Peter continues, breaking you out of your thoughts. He doesn’t offer any further explanation. 

“Ingram? How’d it go?” You ask. Peter shakes his head wordlessly. This session lies at the center of Peter’s current stress. The interaction must’ve gone quite poorly indeed, because Peter goes silent. 

“Peter, are you alright?” Peter shakes his head, although you can’t quite tell if he’s answering your question or trying to shake off a phantom grip. 

“He was questioning me. About Craber. Saying I did it.” The confession stews in the muggy air of the stable. The rotting corpse reaches your nostrils, but even that undesirable stench isn’t enough to draw your attention away from what Peter just said. 

“Ingram was accusing you of her murder?” You press. 

“Manipulating me,” Peter says, picking at his lip. “Trying to get me to confess for something I didn’t do.” 

“That’s-” You try to say, but it seems Peter isn’t finished speaking. 

“I- I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like I didn’t have a choice. And- I didn’t know how to handle the feeling.” Peter looks down at his clasped hands. 

“What feeling?” You’ve never heard your voice sound so quiet before. 

“Anger,” Peter responds, averting his eyes. His gaze is locked on the corner of the room. You take a step closer, then another. You take a deep breath and kneel down next to Peter, in front of the horse’s corpse. Suddenly, lightning flashes in your mind as you come to a realization.

You thought Peter’s grief explained his current positioning—the way he’s sitting in front of Sylvie’s body. That was your prevailing reasoning. You know that’s wrong now. Peter isn’t watching over Sylvie to grieve for her or comfort her. He’s guarding her. 

Why would Peter be guarding the corpse? There shouldn’t be anything there, save for the horse foal that he must’ve sewed back into the womb. But no, that hasn’t been confirmed yet. You don’t know what’s in the horse’s womb. If it were the foal, you suspect Peter wouldn’t be guarding the body. No, there’s something else. Peter put something in the womb and sewed it up to hide it. But what could it be? 

Peter placed the bird in the victim’s chest and placed the victim in the horse’s chest to heal her. This seems different. This time, whatever—whoever—he placed inside the horse’s womb was placed there as Peter tried to cope with his anger. This reconstruction was fueled by anger: anger at the injustice of the crime, anger at the thought of being accused of being the killer. Who was that anger aimed at? Where did Peter’s anger come from? “I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like I had no choice… He was manipulating me.” 

Clark Ingram provoked Peter. Ingram was poking and prodding at him, trying to get him to confess to his role as the killer. What would Ingram gain from that? Ingram was only mentioned in Peter’s file as a social worker; they didn’t know each other prior to Ingram’s assignment. Ingram didn’t have a vendetta against Peter. No. Clark Ingram was desperate to get Peter convicted as the killer. Because…. Because… 

Clark Ingram is the killer. He tried to get Peter convicted in order to save himself. Shaking, you kneel down to the horse’s womb and press a hand to its belly. The dead foal isn’t in there—you remember it being smaller. You know what Sylvie’s womb is holding now. 

“Peter…” You remark. Your voice sounds foreign to your ears—eerily calm despite your heart thundering away in your chest. You’re choking on the words. You don’t want to speak, don’t want to cement the reality that you’re so afraid of. “Is your social worker in that horse?” 

Peter’s back is turned. He doesn’t respond for a horrible amount of time. You bite the inside of your cheek and try to maintain a sense of composure that you certainly don’t feel. A minute passes. Then another. Then another. When Peter responds, his voice is a murmur. “Yes.” 

You inhale sharply. Peter placed Ingram in the horse’s womb. He must’ve incapacitated him during their session, before bringing him back here to this stall. From there, Peter maneuvered Ingram’s body into a fetal position, before placing him in the corpse. Then, he placed the entrails and innards back in the womb, before sealing it all up again. You take a shuddering breath in, the act feeling more laborious than normal. Now that you’re kneeling next to Peter, you realize that his hands have been clasped in his lap throughout your conversation. There are muddy brown stains on the insides of his palms—dried blood. 

You don’t know how long you remain silent, staring at the corpse in front of you. Did Peter kill Ingram? You’re not sure you want to know. All you know is that, when you finally summon the courage to speak, Peter is spooked by the noise. “Will you remove him, please?” You ask. 

Peter stares at the corpse, then turns to you. He nods silently, almost imperceptibly. You pull out your gun and hold it at your side, watching as Peter slowly slices his knife along the horse’s stomach and traces the incision that he created. After a few moments, he gets to his feet and steps away. For an awful beat, there is nothing but silent anticipation. The quiet is broken by a loud gasp as the horse’s stomach pulses and eventually falls away to reveal Clark Ingram, covered in blood and entrails and panting as he returns to the open air. Ingram turns his head up and finds Peter before you; his expression soon morphs into manic rage. You quickly point your gun at Ingram and cock it, drawing his attention away from Peter. Ingram’s eyes meet yours and, immediately, a pendulum swings before your eyes. Clark Ingram murdered all those women and buried them beneath the ground. That momentary glance was all you needed to confirm your suspicions. Even now, as you look at him, you have to fight off the pendulum’s grip. You blink and you see yourself carrying a dead body, digging a hole on the earth to dump it. You blink again and you feel your hands shaking, writhing as you look at your next victim from afar. 

“Please,” Ingram begs. Old blood soaks through his clothing and colors his skin. “It’s not me.” 

You shake your head. The lie is half-baked and falls apart the moment it reaches the air. Ingram knows it too, if the positively malicious glare he sends Peter is any indication. You keep your aim steady and fixed on Ingram. Your finger twitches to pull the trigger. You grit your teeth and try to pull yourself out of the horrible compulsion to make this man hurt, the way he made those women hurt.

Ingram stares at you with a truly pitiful expression, his eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “Please,” he says again. You consider him for a moment. He has robbed many people of their futures. This man does not deserve to continue living, even if that life is confined to a prison cell.

You’ve dealt with criminals like this before: maleficent individuals that deserve a punishment far worse than what they’re getting. This is far from the first killer that you’ve had to confine to a prison cell, despite knowing they deserve the gallows. It’s one of the most frustrating, yet necessary, components of your position. You had never fought with the notion before. Today, though, you’re grappling with the thought. Does Clark Ingram even deserve to keep living? What divine force determined that he was worthy of living, while all his victims weren’t? Hannibal’s voice whispers in your ears, reminding you of God and his violence and cruelty. If God kills, why can’t you? Your head aches. Your hand is growing sweaty and your fingers are twitching. Ingram must sense that you’re approaching the brink of your patience, because his pleas turn louder and more pronounced. 

You’re drowning in a maelstrom of memories. 

“See?” Garret Jacob Hobbs croons.  

“This work… it changes you.” Jack remarks, just as he said to you all those years ago.  

“The killer in the flesh,” Dr. Frederick Chilton greets you, his teeth sharpening and glinting in the light.  

“You killed Franklyn Froideveaux,” Zeller accuses.  

“In your dreams, what do you see?” Hannibal had once asked you.  

“I see myself killing Hobbs, over and over and over again,” you had responded. “I see Abigail slowly fading on that kitchen floor. I see the blood spattered on my hands. And… I feel a smile on my face.” 

“ And, when you wake up?” Hannibal asked. “Dreams are often a pathway into the parts of our minds that we hide away from others. Perhaps there is some truth in these dreams. Perhaps, what you’re most afraid of…” 

“I don’t feel guilty,” you admitted. “Killing… felt good.”  

You blink hard and tilt your head, trying to shake the thoughts away. They return in full force. A shadowed figure stands at your side, guiding your aim to Ingram’s temple. The Chesapeake Ripper smiles at you, a cruel grin that rips the veiled darkness surrounding his form. 

Someone is yelling your name and their voice reverberates through your skull. You clap your free hand over your ear in an effort to silence the sudden onslaught of noise. Everything is growing to be too much. Voices are beckoning you, peering over your shoulder and regarding Ingram with malice. You open your eyes. Your hand twitches again. 

You don’t resist the movement, instead letting your restless impulse— your killer impulse —take over. You fire your gun. The bullet carves through the air in slow-motion, before settling in Ingram’s temple and carving into his skull. Blood splatters everywhere: over the ground, down the killer’s skin, across your face. You wipe the blood from your eyes. 

You stare ahead. Clark Ingram lies crumpled on the ground, the light fading from his eyes. He manages a weak groan, before his eyes promptly fall shut. You stand frozen in front of him. There’s a ringing noise in your ears. The pendulum from before has shifted into a metronome, swinging back and forth. A hollow echo resounds in rhythm as you stare at your first true victim. You’re shaking, trembling, shivering. Your gun slips from your hand, falls to the hay-filled floor with a thud. 

What have you done? 

Ingram isn’t just a victim, now. He’s your victim. This is truly your design. Everything fell into place the moment you raised your hand and aimed at Ingram’s temple. You can hear his voice echoing in your mind, begging and pleading with you to spare his life. Please. You bring a hand to your head, the pulsing sensation nearly enough to bring you off your feet. Please. Blood is trickling from his temple, falling down the man’s face in crimson tears. Please. You can hear an achingly familiar laugh, a whisper of the cunning wit you haven’t heard in years. Please-

You put your hands over your ears and fall down to a kneeling position on the ground, desperate for a reprieve from your thoughts and the guilt and the vindictive feeling powerful enough to send flames roaring up your skin- 

It’s hard to breathe. You feel yourself dry heaving over the hay-covered floor and, when you blink, you’re kneeling in puddles of Ingram’s blood. You try to inhale slowly, but your breath is hard to acquire and your chest burns with the effort. Saliva slips from the side of your lips as you try to recover from the fear, regret, rage, revulsion, pride that settles over your form. You look at Ingram again, take a deep breath. Wipe off your mouth. Take another breath. Slowly get to your feet. Walk over to him. Check for a pulse.

He’s dead. 

What should you do? You could turn yourself in and lose your job, potentially facing prison time. You could try to dress up the crime scene, make it seem like a suicide. That would be incredibly difficult to do without indicting Peter and making him a potential suspect. Furthermore, it’s somewhat implausible to think that Ingram would shoot himself after escaping the horse’s womb, rather than trying to wound his enemy. He had no qualms about sourcing his victims, and likely engaged in combat to do so. You feel your breathing quicken as you are forced to come to terms with the reality of the situation. It feels as if the world is caving in. Rationality is giving way to the emotions that suffocate you. 

Distantly, amidst it all, you can recognize that there’s one more option. You never would have considered it before— before him, a traitorous voice whispers in the back of your mind. (It sounds like Franklyn.) However, you truly feel as if you have no better choice. And if a part of you wishes to make things even once more, to harm the criminal who ruthlessly killed Ingram in cold blood…. 

You take a deep breath. “Peter,” you say calmly. Your voice sounds unnaturally tranquil. “I need you to do something for me.” Peter looks at you quizzically. “Walk out of the stable. Go back inside and… don’t come back out until you hear me.” Peter stares at you for a long moment. He is startled. There are flecks of blood on his cheeks. Through the emotional whiplash of what you’ve done, remorse and guilt briefly prevail as you realize that you shouldn’t have gotten Peter involved in this. Thankfully, what you’re asking of him provides him an alibi for what will come next. 

“How will I know when you…?” Peter breaks off, staring at you in confusion. 

“Can I trust you to do that for me?” You interject. The sincerity in your voice seems to unnerve him. 

“Yes,” Peter responds with a perplexed but resolute nod. “Yes, I- Okay.” He takes one last look at the corpse in front of you, before turning around and heading for the exit of the stable. 

You wait a few moments, until you’re sure that you’ve given him enough time to return to the farmhouse. You’re compelled to look down at your gun on the stable floor. It’s not the preferred weapon right now. You instead reach and grab the knife at your belt, turning it over in your hands. The metal gleams at you tauntingly. For a moment, you can see blood spilling from it. It must be a trick of the light. 

You take a step closer to Ingram’s corpse. And… another one. You’re nearly standing over the body now. Your fingers feel stuck to the knife, a frozen grip forcing you to wield the weapon. You shouldn’t be doing this. But you have to pay for what you’ve done. 

You close your eyes and reach up, knife in hand. 

For a moment, your hand hovers in the air and you contemplate going back. 

It’s a foolish thought. You can never go back to the way things were. 

Your aim rings true, and the blade sinks into your forearm. You scream. 

Through the pain shooting up your arm, you manage to shakily push yourself a bit further, reaching out with your uninjured hand to grab at Ingram’s hand. From there, you manipulate his fingers so that he’s gripping the knife. You make sure to close his hand around the blade, before taking a deep breath through your teeth.

There’s a chance you won’t survive this. 

You can’t find it in yourself to care. 

You pull the knife out with the corpse’s hand and let out an uneasy groan as pain floods through your arm. Your vision spirals, blackening around the edges and spinning in a dizzying array of colors. You feel like a marionette with limp strings, left to crumple to the ground without a puppet master. The last thing you see before your world fades to black is the neat hole carving a path straight through Ingram’s temple.

next chapter

Just in case I didn’t make it clear enough, the reader stabs himself & wipes off the prints/places the knife in the grip of the corpse. This creates a situation where it appears as if Clark stabbed the reader before he killed Clark. (Of course, the reality of the situation is that the reader killed Clark first, which he wasn’t supposed to do). By stabbing himself, he covers his tracks because he can claim that the murder was in “self-defense” and “after provocation.” It’s a little flimsy, and I’m no forensic expert, but remember that this is fiction. I can do whatever I want here. *grins*

You may be thinking: Hey, Hero (that's me)… couldn’t a stab wound like that be lethal? And the answer is… probably? I did some research to try to figure out the practicality of stabbing yourself and surviving, but it ended up triggering me so I had to stop searching.

Rationalization for Peter and his actions: Peter fades to the background once Ingram comes out of the womb because the reader is armed and serves as a blockade between Ingram and him. Peter is lurking somewhere behind you throughout the interaction, to protect himself from Ingram. Keep in mind that he is an entirely unarmed civilian, so there’s little that he could do to affect the outcome. ||| Peter does what the reader asks of him because he trusts him. Few people have ever taken the time to understand Peter, so the fact that the reader went out of his way to make him feel comfortable (such as not forcing him to talk or make eye contact) influences Peter’s view of him. Plus, Peter didn’t like Ingram. That much is obvious. Ingram’s death is not really a tragic affair for Peter. Finally, Peter was confused and searching for guidance in the chaos of the situation. So, when the reader gave him something to do, Peter jumped at the chance—in the hopes of either distracting himself or gaining clarity. ||| If I’m being perfectly honest, I don’t quite remember Peter’s canonical personality, so I sort of just… went with my gut. My gut ended up writing him to be autistic, because I’m autistic and what little I remember of him seemed to fit.

The reader’s motivations for killing Ingram could be justice, Hannibal’s influence, the cruelty of Ingram’s crimes, hallucinations… or any combination. Your pick. And don’t worry, the reader isn’t going to suddenly transform into a killing machine—this was very much an isolated incident. (..or was it? jk.) This protagonist’s morality is dubious, so that this fic can be distinguished from the TV show. I also wanted him to be darker, so sue me.

Here’s a scrap from this chapter that never made it. I like it too much to let it die out in my doc:

Idly, you imagine what Hannibal would do if he were here. He’d place a hand on yours, slowly push your weapon down until it was pointed at the ground. Perhaps he’d even slip a hand under your jaw, prompt you to look at him as he smiles that infuriating smile—the one with an equal amount of unearned pride and cunning. It doesn’t matter, you have to remind yourself. Hannibal isn’t here. No one is here—not Jack, not Beverly, not Alana. There is no one here to stop you from crossing a line you won’t be able to come back from.

As always, thank you so so much for reading! I will see you all in the new year! Wishing each of you a refreshing and relaxing start to the new year! ily <3

TAGLIST: @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 #male reader #x male reader #x gn reader #gn reader #hannibal x reader #Hannibal Lecter x male reader #Hannibal Lecter x gn reader #Hannibal Lecter x reader #hannibal x male reader #hannibal x gn reader #transmasc reader #masc reader

[defectivevillain]

this broken design, ch3

“Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried. You quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

read from the beginning here! [this won’t make much sense, otherwise]

[ao3 version]

reader’s pronouns are he/him.

warnings: canon typical violence, blood, and gore; spoilers for the first few episodes

In hindsight, you should’ve expected it. Alana Bloom—your former psychiatrist—had been on vacation for the past week. She hadn’t been there to see your tremendous, spectacular descent into madness. [Well, you hesitate to call it madness, but the term feels apt enough for now.] You don’t anticipate that to be a problem, but the moment you walk into the institute in the morning, Alana accosts you.

Admittedly, you’re more surprised than you should be. She missed the whole Hobbs incident. Furthermore, Alana has been rather… invested… in your personal affairs recently. Despite the fact that she hasn’t been your psychiatrist for a few months, she still checks in on you every week or so. Alana seems to think you’re friends—and you haven’t quite found the courage to dispel the notion. Even now, as she’s practically manhandling you and guiding you to her office, you don’t move to stop her. Despite the dread coiling in your stomach, you let her close her office door and stare at you from across her desk.  

“You promised you wouldn’t get too close,” Alana says, crossing her arms over her chest and placing her palms flat against her desk. You sigh; admittedly, you had hoped that Alana wouldn’t do this— namely because her concern often feels patronizing instead of genuine. That was one of the reasons you stopped pursuing care with her—it felt as if you were getting a scolding from a parent. When Alana is finished talking, you take a deep breath.

“It was unavoidable,” you say, taking a moment to pinch the bridge of your nose and pretend that this isn’t your reality. Alana doesn’t seem very convinced. This really is just like old times—you tell her about something, she patronizes you for making the decision you made, nothing gets fixed… It takes all of your patience not to bolt right out of her office. “Hobbs had already killed his wife by the time I arrived. Any later and he would’ve escaped, Alana.” That statement finally seems to get through to her, as she folds her hands on the desk.

“I know,” Alana admits, averting her eyes for a moment, “I just… I worry about you. Is that such a bad thing?” The clock on the wall behind her ticks forebodingly. Something akin to tension settles in the air. You suddenly feel that the conversation is entirely out of your control. There’s a strangely vulnerable expression on her face and you can’t help but raise your guard.

“I guess not,” you admit with a frown. Alana takes you a step closer and you freeze right in place, entirely unsure of what she’s doing. Typically, she’s more cognizant of your need for personal space. Today, though, she’s leaning over your desk to break the distance between the two of you. Your eyes meet and she leans impossibly closer. Her fingers clasp your shirt collar and she tugs you to her. Your concentration slips for a moment as your momentum rushes forward, and you have to shoot a hand out to brace yourself against the desk. One moment, you’re careening forward; the next, Alana is kissing you.

You’re entirely frozen in her grasp. The moment you begin to process what’s happening, Alana pulls back, steps around her desk, and walks away. You stare at her retreating figure in disbelief. Your lips are tingling. What the hell just happened? You clench your fists against the wooden desk, feeling remarkably confused. It takes you an immeasurable amount of time to get a grip. When you finally manage to shake yourself out of your confused stupor, you leave Alana’s office and determinedly walk through the halls of the institute.

You manage to end up near the BAU offices, unsurprisingly. You look around the common area, surprised to find that there is no one in sight. You take a few more steps and look down the hall, only to see Beverly in the lab. You walk towards her. “Bev,” you hiss. Your friend doesn’t look up. You take a deep breath. “Bev!”

“Hey,” Beverly says, blinking at you in confusion. You resist the compelling urge to grab her by the collar and shake her. She finally tears her eyes away from whatever she’s analyzing and levels you with a scrutinizing gaze. “What’s up? You look funny.” Her eyebrows are furrowed as she looks at you.

“Wow, thanks,” you remark dryly, crossing your arms over your chest. The lab is always freezing. You really need to keep a coat or jacket in here.

“Funnier than usual, I mean,” Beverly clarifies, as if that will make the situation better. You look at her in disbelief for a moment and she stares back unflinchingly.

“Yeah, thanks,” you then respond flatly. You have to take a moment to collect your thoughts and recall why you came to her. “Anyway, I had something to tell you.”

“Ooh, is it hot goss?” Beverly smirks, eyes gleaming.

“What the hell is hot goss?” You squint at her in faux disgust. Beverly rolls her eyes.

“Hot gossip, obviously,” Beverly answers, blinking at you as if you have three heads. She grabs the clipboard she had set aside and places it on the counter next to you.

“Well, actually… it sort of is,” you grimace.

“Sweet!” Beverly grins, leaning forward in intrigue. “What is it?”

“Alana kissed me,” you choke out, the words prying your lips apart and crawling out of your mouth. Even just uttering the sentiment makes you uncomfortable. Your heart is still racing and your hands are trembling ever so slightly. It feels as if you’re in a nightmare.  

“What?” Bev exclaims loudly, freezing and looking at you in complete shock. You helplessly stare back for a few moments. Beverly searches your face—evidently trying to discern if you’re telling the truth—before shaking her head in disbelief. “Wow.”

“I know,” you remark, feeling just as lost as she looks, “I was completely shocked.”

“Um, yeah.” Beverly shakes her head in disbelief. She then looks around your immediate surroundings, as if making sure no one is around to hear. You feel slightly honored at the gesture, but mostly amused—you already spilled all the hot goss. Furthermore, you’re in the lab. The only people in here besides you two are dead and, therefore, entirely unable to eavesdrop. “So… what did you do?”

“I just stood there like a dumbass,” you admit with a sigh, putting your head in your hands. Beverly graciously allows you to do so, remaining silent and waiting for you to continue. Eventually, you get over some of your initial embarrassment and continue. “Then, I came right here to you.”

“As you should,” Beverly nods wisely. She crosses her arms over her chest and grins victoriously. “As you fucking should.” You roll your eyes fondly. It only takes a few moments for the reality of the situation to come crashing down on you again.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper, just loud enough for your friend to hear. You bite your lip and try to pretend as if the world hasn’t been thrown off its axis. That whole encounter with Alana was entirely unexpected, and you wish you could just forget it. If only you could turn back time to about an hour ago, before you had crossed paths with Alana…

“Well, you don’t have to do anything, obviously,” Beverly interjects, squinting at you as if the solution to that problem is obvious. Her confidence pulls you out of your spiraling thoughts. “It was entirely her decision to do that. You had no choice in the matter. In fact, she should have asked you before she kissed you… Do you want me to beat her up?”

“No, don’t beat her up,” you say, choking on a laugh. Bev smiles victoriously. You can’t get rid of the rather amusing mental picture that comes with Beverly’s suggestion. “But, yeah, you might be right.”

“Of course I am,” Beverly squints at you worriedly, as if the mere idea of thinking otherwise is cause for concern. “I’m always right.”

“Unfortunately, you usually are,” you acquiesce, earning a mischievous smirk from Beverly. The conversation soon falls away from your interaction with Alana earlier that morning, thankfully.

The universe seems to be smiling down on you, because, after a few hours of work, Jack lets you go home early. You have a lingering suspicion that it may have something to do with the distracted mindset you were stuck in. A few times, you zoned out so much that someone had to shake your shoulder or snap their fingers in front of your face. You’re just… overwhelmed, to be honest. Alana kissing you was not on your bingo card for this year—that’s for sure.

Fortunately, you manage to have a rather calming rest of your night. You push aside all thoughts of Alana and work, and instead just try to relax. Somehow, the attempt works and you’re able to get a good night’s sleep. The next morning, you feel surprisingly rejuvenated and refreshed. You don’t have to go into work until later, so you’re content to make breakfast and then work on tidying up your house. Within a few hours, you’ve done your laundry and washed Hannibal’s clothes—which you plan to give back to him today; you also cleaned around the house and did some of the more unpleasant chores that you’d been putting off. Overall, it’s quite the productive day. So, when your phone alarm goes off to remind you of your appointment with Hannibal, you walk out to the car and start driving over with a content smile on your face.

You park your car and mechanically make your way into the office. The waiting room is blissfully empty and you take a seat in the chair in the far corner. You’re a bit early, so you’re forced to wait a bit before Hannibal comes out of his office. “Please, come in.” Hannibal’s voice breaks you from your thoughts. You look up from where you’d been staring at the ground, only to find the psychiatrist standing in the doorway to his office. He motions for you to follow him and you do so without hesitation. Just as Hannibal shuts the door behind him, you remember what you meant to return to him.

“Here, I have these… before I forget,” you remark, extending your arms to reveal the neatly folded clothes that he lent you days ago. “I washed them a few times, don’t worry.” The psychiatrist reaches out and, somehow, your fingers brush his as you hand the articles to him.

“I wasn’t worried,” Hannibal remarks with a mix of amusement and confusion. You raise an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t explain that sentiment any further. He walks over to his desk and you decide to head for the chairs. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch a flicker of movement. When you turn your head, you swear you see him smelling the pile of folded clothes. Do you really smell that bad? You shake your head and pretend that you didn’t see anything.

Once Hannibal returns from his desk, the session is underway. You talk about your day and what’s weighing on your mind. Hannibal asks you about work and you immediately think of the institute. Although you're sure that he’s inquiring about the Ripper or any other killers you’re searching for, you can’t quite control the sharp turn your mind takes toward your encounter with Alana. The words are slipping from your tongue before you can stop them.

“Alana kissed me,” you blurt out, quickly looking down and hoping Hannibal didn’t hear anything. Unfortunately, Hannibal is rather perceptive and he seems to have heard your remark. There’s a mysterious expression on his face and his eye twitches for a millisecond. “I don’t know why I said that, I’m so sorry.” That’s likely something Hannibal could have done without hearing. Oops.

“It seems to be causing you significant distress.” Hannibal remarks, no trace of emotion anywhere on his face. Sometimes, you wish you were that good at hiding your feelings. “I presume you’re talking about Alana Bloom; how do you know her?”

“She was my psychiatrist for a little while,” you decide to say. You’re debating keeping the latter part of your relationship a secret, but Hannibal is looking unusually attentive and you can’t find any reason to keep it hidden. “We dated for a little while, but that was years ago.” There’s a brief pause where Hannibal doesn’t say anything and you fall quiet.

“You broke up.” The statement is phrased like a question and you begin to catch on. You’re unable to get rid of the smile on your face at the realization. For the first time, Hannibal looks interested. More than that, he looks utterly enraptured. He is awaiting your answer with thinly concealed anticipation. You grin.

“You want all the gory details, huh?” You stare at Hannibal, letting the silence drag on for several moments. You can almost feel the tension in the air. Folding your hands in your lap, you mimic his posture and lean forward. Hannibal watches quietly. You make sure to look at him with an open expression. “That’s unlike you, Dr. Lecter.” Hannibal blinks and you smirk victoriously.

“Apologies; it seems I have overstepped,” the psychiatrist remarks, a mildly apologetic smile on his face. You get the feeling that he isn’t truly remorseful—he’s just apologetic because you called him out. You can’t stop the short huff of amusement that spills from your lips. Hannibal raises an eyebrow, but he continues regardless. “It appears Miss Bloom still cares for you.”

“Apparently,” you acquiesce, giving up on the rather enjoyable game of manipulating Hannibal. Unfortunately, the moment you let your focus slip, the interaction from yesterday dominates your thoughts again. You can’t stop berating yourself for it. You should’ve paid more attention to the signs, you should’ve pushed her away, you should’ve…

“You seem unusually fixated on it,” Hannibal interrupts, raising his eyebrows at you. The fire crackles in the fireplace, illuminating the room in an amber glow. Hannibal’s eyes glow in the dim lighting and you’re briefly reminded of how dangerous the man is. His expression turns from amused to expectant and you have to break away from your thoughts.

“It wasn’t entirely… wanted; she kind of just grabbed me before I could do anything,” you grimace at the memory. There is pure malice written in the lines of Hannibal’s body—his shoulders are tight and his lips are pulled taut in a flat line. “I thought we were just friends,” you continue, pretending not to notice the murderous aura coming from Hannibal’s general direction. “I’m just the worst at reading the subtext like that.”

“Reading the subtext is an apt description,” Hannibal nods thoughtfully, after a rather painful moment of silence. You swear he’s still leaning forward in his chair, as if trying to breach the distance between you. “You didn’t know about her feelings.”

“I didn’t have a damn clue; embarrassing, isn’t it?” You shake your head, starting to analyze your past interactions and connect the dots. Alana had been weirdly tactile for a short period, there… You had just dismissed it to be friendly contact. Evidently, it was a lot more than that.

“Why would that be that embarrassing?” Hannibal queries, squinting at you. You take a deep breath and try to collect your thoughts.  

“We both wanted different things,” you manage to say, after reflecting upon the events of the day. You never realized that Alana wanted more. You really thought the breakup was the end of things. Apparently not, you think wryly. It takes a lot of effort to stop yourself from overanalyzing every interaction you’ve had with her, searching for the moments when you should’ve n​​oticed her feelings.

“She wanted things you couldn’t give her,” Hannibal says, staring at you intently. You swallow hard, feeling as if the conversation has taken an uncomfortable turn.

“Yeah,” you eventually agree. “That’s a rather typical theme in my life,” you say, before Hannibal can say the same thing. Sure enough, the psychiatrist nods. Silence stretches across the space and it is painfully awkward. The atmosphere feels extremely tense. You take a deep breath and decide to change the subject. “Other than that, I’ve been… okay. It’s been weird, lately. The Ripper hasn’t been active in over a year.”

“That unsettles you,” Hannibal says.

“I feel like I’m letting my guard down,” you finally admit. You had been carrying the sentiment for a while there. Once you utter the words, though, you realize their gravity. You truly have felt uneasy without the Ripper’s murders. “Then, when he does kill again, I won’t be prepared.”

“No one is truly prepared for death,” Hannibal says. You roll your eyes and cross your arms over your chest.

“I just mean… I feel weirdly off-kilter,” you clarify, before Hannibal can launch into another weird extended metaphor. “I feel like… the Ripper has grown to define me. What kind of person does that make me?”

“Your work is rather immersive.” The justification sounds rather weak. Still, you appreciate the gesture nonetheless. There’s a weirdly restrained look on Hannibal’s face, as if he’s actively forcing himself to remain silent and not speak again. You try to pretend that you never noticed.

“Unfortunately,” you acknowledge, taking a shuddering breath in. It suddenly feels a lot warmer in this office space. You pull at your collar and Hannibal’s eyes track the movement. “Still. I’ve never felt such a connection with any other killer. It’s weird… When I see his murders, I can feel exactly what he was feeling.” Hannibal raises his eyebrows, nonverbally asking you to elaborate. “Typically, I can sense what the killer was feeling at the time of the murder. With the Ripper, though, I can genuinely feel what he felt. The sensation takes a few hours to subside. Then, I’m left feeling strangely… empty.”

“The Ripper gives your life purpose.” You swallow hard and take a deep breath at that. You’re unable to utter any words; you wrap your arms around yourself, feeling the need to shield yourself from everything. Your breaths start to feel a bit more laborious. After a few moments, you chance a glance up at Hannibal. You’re expecting eyes gleaming in distrust, posture tight with discomfort, anything. You’re certainly not expecting the strange mix of pride and hunger written in the slight pull to his lips. “I’m not one to question how another conducts their life.” The complex expression resting on Hannibal’s face is rather unnerving. You have to take a few seconds to actively process and comprehend his statement.

“Sure you aren’t,” you remark loftily. Hannibal’s gaze sharpens and intensifies significantly. You meet his eyes and raise your eyebrows. Hannibal is one of the most judgmental people you’ve ever met—he just knows how to hide it behind a charming twist of his lips. You almost utter those words aloud, before you realize that the psychiatrist’s attention has been captured by the elegant watch sitting on his wrist.

Hannibal smiles apologetically at you and, for a moment, it almost looks sincere. You resist the urge to call him out on the gesture. “It looks like we’re out of time for today,” he remarks. “Shall we continue this conversation next week?”

“Sure,” you agree easily. The time had really flown by. Usually, your sessions felt a lot longer. Although, you’ve had a lot weighing on your mind recently. Indeed, your shoulders feel lighter when you get up to your feet. You smile at Hannibal. “Bye.” As you walk away, you feel his eyes digging into your back. Even as you get in your car and drive away, his words run through your mind.

The Ripper gives your life purpose.

chapter four

#defectivevillain #Hannibal x reader #Hannibal Lecter x reader #Hannibal nbc #Hannibal x male reader #male reader #masc reader #transmasc reader

[defectivevillain]

this winding labyrinth, ch5

chapter five: surrender

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader is not gendered, race-ambiguous, and no physical descriptors are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is chapter 5, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapters 1-4, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: the usual fare (canon-typical violence, gore, murder), death (of children and adults)

Several Years Later… 

Jack Crawford and you stand over the table in his office, which is nearly buried under newspapers and physical materials. Two photographs lie in stark contrast to the black and white newspapers, bursts of horribly vivid color amidst the monotony. You look at the first one: a photo of the crime scene at the Leeds’ residence. You shake your head, thinking back to your investigation of the eerily silent home. 

There had been too much to look at. Too many bloodstains. Too much dust. Not nearly enough substantial evidence. You gleaned far too much about the daily lives of the Leedses as you investigated that house. The simplest mundanities were demonstrative of their ordinary lives before their deaths. A normal family with no enemies. (As it usually happens). Death doesn’t discriminate between good and evil, deserving and undeserving. You have to come to terms with that lesson every time you approach a crime scene. 

The pendulum swings before your eyes once more—a familiar greeting. You blink and you’re standing in the Leeds’ residence, sneaking through the dark hall until you reach the master bedroom. Mr. and Mrs. Leeds slumber peacefully, with no indication of the horrors they will soon experience. You hover at the end of their bed, listening to their measured breaths. In, out. Your gloved hand is steady on your gun and you round the side of the bed, towering over Mr. Leeds. He exhales slowly. You fire and a bullet carves its way through his temple. Mrs. Leeds rouses at the noise, her face paling in the near darkness as she sees her husband’s blood spilling down his face and coloring the pristine white sheets. The woman tries to get up and you shoot her in the abdomen, before making your way out of the master bedroom and walking down the hall to the children’s bedroom. 

Their boys are awake now, too. They sit upright in bed, staring at you with wide eyes and thinly-veiled fear. You raise your gun and shoot the first in the temple. The other boy scampers away, falling to the ground and attempting to crawl under the bed. It doesn’t take you long to break the distance between you and grab at his ankle, yanking him back out and flipping him onto his back. A swift shot to the head drains the light from his eyes. You turn your back on the children, your attention captured by the master bedroom. You think you hear ragged breathing. Perfect. 

You take a deep breath and push the pendulum away, looking down at the photograph as you try to make a coherent timeline of events. The husband was killed first. The wife went next—was shot with a bullet through the abdomen. The two boys were shot and killed too. Then, the smashing of the mirrors. And… the strangulation of Mrs. Leeds, which proved to be the true cause of death. 

The two boys and the husband were positioned to observe Mrs. Leeds, to watch as the killer drained the life from her eyes, imprinted his teeth onto her skin, snapped his bloodied maw, guts and gore slipping onto his tongue and down his throat- 

“They found a film,” Jack says, breaking you out of your self-imposed trance. He grabs the tape and pushes it into the television in the corner of the room. “Mr. Leeds had purchased it three weeks prior to his death.”

The two of you move your chairs to sit in front of the television. For an awful and tense moment, the screen stutters in static. Time is an utter drag, mocking you for your unfounded patience. Will this film really be of any significance?

You don’t think so, and your suspicions are soon proven correct. The film is a recording of a few simple moments in the family’s ordinary life—relaxing on a beach with shimmering water, laughing around a dinner table. 

When the film is finished, Jack retrieves it from the television and returns to his seat. “What do you see?” He asks. You’re not sure you want to answer. And, really, what do you see?

“A happy family,” you remark. There’s something idling in your mind—a key component not yet realized. There is significance in the discrepancies between Mrs. Leeds and the rest of the family’s deaths; there is significance in the attention paid to the matriarch and the matriarch alone. You ruminate on the film you just watched, trying to connect the seemingly unrelated pieces. Something must’ve drawn the killer to this family. 

“Do you think Mrs. Leeds was beautiful?” You hear yourself asking. You remember the shimmering blond hair flowing down her back, the charming smile she aimed at the camera. You think of the way the killer defiled her corpse, the intimate way he killed her and only her. 

“Sure,” Jack remarks, clearly unsure where you’re going with the conversation. You’re not sure you know where you’re going, either. You just know that you can’t seem to move past Mrs. Leeds.

“He thought she was, too,” you say. “He paid her special attention. The cause of death was strangulation, remember. The killer was somewhat fixated with Mrs. Jacobi in a similar manner—he bit her, too.”

You frown. “What do we know about the killer, at this point?” You have to ask. There have been so many conversations, so many discussions laden with the smallest and most insignificant of revelations. It is an arduous task to connect this killer to a person. 

Indeed, Jack takes a deep breath. “He’s right-handed and has blond hair,” your boss recalls, crossing one leg over his knee. His eyebrows furrow as he evidently searches through his memory. “Size eleven shoes.” 

“He’s strong, evidently,” you add with a frown. Although, how strong, you can’t be sure. After all, he didn’t seem willing to take the chance of confronting Mr. Leeds, instead disposing of him before he could resist. Strangling Mrs. Leeds, on the other hand… That required both an immense urge to touch her—even with gloved hands, as the lack of fingerprints showed—and a fervent strength. Yes, this killer is strong. “Anything else?” You don’t expect much. 

“Semen and saliva show his blood type is AB positive,” Jack finishes. Your stomach turns with disgust, a white-hot rage flaming down your spine for the briefest of moments. This job never gets easier, you think to yourself. You just slowly become numb to the world’s horrors. 

“Let’s review the timing of these again,” you suggest, eager to continue with the conversation. You cross one leg over the other and stare at the dark television screen in front of you. “The Jacobis were killed on the full moon last month. The Leeds were killed almost a month later, a day before the full moon. That was… a few days ago, now.”

“The Jacobis were killed in their home in Birmingham; the Leeds were killed in their home in Atlanta… Both white, middle-class families. Nuclear families.” You recount. 

Jack nods. “They’re calling him the Tooth Fairy,” he says, getting to his feet and walking over to the table once more. He grabs a newspaper and studies it with disinterest. It’s clear Jack isn’t fond of the childish nickname, and you don’t think you are, either. 

“From the biting,” you sigh. “Clever.” You scoff, standing up and returning to your spot at the table. The two of you regard the haphazard pile of papers and photographs. You’re starting to feel a bit frustrated—this conversation is yielding no new information, and neither are the ongoing investigations in the homes of the victims. 

Jack stares down at one of the newspapers, his lips pulled in a thin line. “No clear motive,” he frowns. “Random selection.” 

“Every killer has a motive,” you remind him. “And there has to be something that connects these two families.” There needs to be, otherwise you’ll be exploring more houses laden with dust and picking apart more corpses. Jack nods in agreement. He knows as well as you do: there is nothing truly random about this killer’s behavior. It seems random now, because there have only been two instances. If there were more, you could deduce a pattern more easily… but you don’t want to manifest more death. 

“No witnesses,” you remember. Jack nods, a grimace on his face. The killer slipped in and slipped out with frightening ease, managing not to alert even a single neighbor to his presence. You went around and did some door duty back when you visited the crime scene, but you hadn’t had much luck with any of the neighbors. “Has Alana taken a look at this?” Jack confirms your suspicions with a nod. “And?”

Jack just shakes his head. You’re sure Alana provided some valuable insight, but there’s little that hasn’t already been thoroughly examined. There are only so many times the same people can scrutinize the same set of information. “We’ve spoken to all the typical suspects.” By ‘the typical suspects,’ you assume Jack means Alana, Beverly, Jimmy Price, Brian Zeller, and the local police department (although, you’re not sure they were able to provide you any helpful information; your relationship typically works the other way around, with the FBI providing the local jurisdiction with more information).  

“We don’t have much time,” you say. The words cling to the air with vigor. If the killer continues to follow his pattern, he will kill another family on the full moon of the next month. That leaves you… not even four weeks to track him down. Not to mention, there’s an utter lack of meaningful evidence. All you have right now are shadows—traces of the killer’s movements,  a smattering of physical traits that millions of people could possess. You fear that, in three weeks, you will still be at the same roadblock you’re at right now. Perhaps that fear is what motivates you to continue speaking. 

“Maybe we need to reevaluate our approach,” you say, the words traitorously crawling from your lips. The remark casts a tense silence across the air. You both know it’s true; if there’s anything you know about Jack Crawford, it’s that he is one to rely on the tried and true methods. Thinking “outside the box” is not an idea that Jack typically embraces. But you fear you don’t have any other options. 

“What do you suggest?” Your boss asks. His agreeableness is demonstrative of how little information you have, and how desperate you are to get a lead on this guy. You take a deep breath and try to organize your thoughts. 

The BAU has thoroughly evaluated all the available evidence. Perhaps, in order to make new connections, you need to speak to new professionals. You need more eyes on this case. Thinking about the killer, you realize that you need a more tangible psychological profile in order to contextualize his behavior and get closer to discovering his identity. 

“We need information on a killer,” you start. You pause, questioning your own judgment. There’s a solution staring you straight in the face, but… It’s far from your brightest or safest idea. Then again, you’re desperate—and you know Jack is, too. You take a deep breath, ignoring the whispers haunting the back of your mind. “Who better to consult… than another killer?” 

“Another killer,” Jack repeats, staring at you as if you’ve gone crazy. Hell, maybe you have gone crazy. But, sometimes, you need crazy ideas to catch crazy people. That’s what you like to tell yourself, anyway. The truth of the situation may be a combination of honest desperation and something more… unsettling.

Because, truthfully, this other killer’s voice has never left your mind. This other killer is just as brutal as the Tooth Fairy, if not moreso. 

“You don’t mean-” Jack cuts himself off, a brief disturbed expression flickering across his face before it morphs into indifference. “Dr. Lecter. Of course.”

Both of you are rather uncomfortable with the notion. But, if Hannibal could provide you with new answers—or, hell, new questions… “He would know,” you admit. “After all, this killer and the Ripper are rather similar. They both left behind little evidence—practically untraceable.”

Jack is quiet for several moments. You can see the gears whirring behind his eyes, as he weighs the potential benefits against the numerous risks. Eventually, he seems to come to an impasse, and he shakes his head. Jack then looks at you. “You would speak with him?”

To your knowledge, Alana is the only one who has actually spoken to Hannibal in the years since he was imprisoned—and from what she told you, their conversation was unhelpful. You would be the best person to speak with him now, realistically speaking. An entire minute passes before you can find it in yourself to respond. “...Yes.”

“Do you realize how dangerous this is?” Jack asks, searching your expression for something. You try your best to maintain your composure. 

“High risk, high reward,” you say. “He could know something. And even if he doesn’t, he’ll probably have a good educated guess.” 

Jack studies you for another minute, before exhaling and murmuring something along the lines of “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this.”  You don’t blame him—you’re also surprised he agreed. Perhaps more surprising is the fact that you were the one to suggest visiting Hannibal in the first place, after everything he’s done to you. A part of you is terrified that your history with him… has only just begun. 

You summon some courage and head for the door. “Agent,” Jack interjects, before you can leave. You turn back around to face him. 

“Yes?” You ask. 

“Be careful,” Jack says. “He’ll try to get in your head.” 

You nod, knowing words will betray you. Really, what the hell are you doing? Why did you sign up for this? Is there a part of you, however small, that hopes to see him again? These thoughts haunt you for the rest of the day and well into the night, until the point when you’re snoozing your alarm and blinking blearily as you realize that you didn’t get a single minute of sleep. 

The drive passes in the blink of an eye. The Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane hasn’t changed much in the years since your last visit; the building is still somewhat of an eyesore, with dirtied brick and grimy windows. You haven’t walked down these halls for years. The last time you traversed this path was to speak to Abel Gideon. Hannibal Lecter was there too—that time, on the other side of the bars. Things look almost exactly the same, and you nearly feel as if you’ve been displaced in time. You turn around the corner and step into Chilton’s office. He’s preoccupied with staring at something on his laptop screen. You wait patiently in the doorway for a minute, but nothing happens. 

“Dr. Chilton,” you decide to greet him, finally pulling his attention towards you. You immediately wish you could un-notice the way his eyes sparkle when he looks at you, the mad glint in his eye as he practically pulls you apart in front of him. Chilton is far from your favorite person on the planet, but he isn’t evil, you remind yourself. Misguided, yes. But not evil. 

“Hello,” Chilton greets you in response, closing his laptop and regarding you with his full attention. “It’s been a while. A few years, at least?”

You breathe slowly, trying to calm your racing heart. “Yes, it has been a while,” you say with a smile that only feels a little forced. “I saw you published a book.” Hannibal the Cannibal, you recall. Not the cleverest of titles. 

“Ah, yes,” Chilton responds. Amazingly, he doesn’t take the gifted opportunity to talk about it. It seems that the man has changed a little, in the years that you’ve seen him. How much he’s changed, still remains to be seen, however. 

While the small talk is a nice distraction, you know you need to get down to business. “I need to see Hannibal Lecter,” you say, handing Chilton the forms that Jack signed for you. You’re not making that mistake again. Looking at those signed forms catapults you back in time once more, to a tense first encounter between Frederick Chilton and Hannibal Lecter, to an even more tense discussion with Abel Gideon.

“Have fun,” Chilton remarks wryly, after checking over your papers. He pulls one of his desk drawers open and files the paperwork away, before returning his attention to you. “Lecter has been… disagreeable. Nearly silent.”

That’s interesting. You ask Chilton to elaborate, not realizing your error until you see his eyes light up as he begins to speak. Around the two-minute mark, you have to cut him off. “Okay, thank you,” you interject, before he can go on for any longer. There were a few morsels of helpful information buried in that giant monologue, but it’s not nearly enough to make you feel adequately prepared for talking to Hannibal for the first time in years. 

Chilton seems to sense your unease, because he gets up from his desk to guide you towards his cell. When you stand up too, he claps a hand on your shoulder. A shiver travels down your spine, but you try your best to ignore it. Chilton is the least of your concerns at the present moment. 

“What have you been up to?” Chilton asks as he leads you through the maximum security level of the prison. He seems entirely unbothered by the jeers and taunts the prisoners are directing at both of you. Meanwhile, you have to resist the urge to clap your hands over your ears. All the noise distracts you from his question, and you don’t remember to provide an answer until Chilton is politely coughing to get your attention. 

“Oh, right,” you remark. “Well, the usual, I guess… I’m back in the field. I’m teaching the new recruits, too. Sometimes I visit Abigail.” You fiddle with the tape recorder concealed in your jacket pocket. You have no doubt that Hannibal will notice it immediately, but you can’t find it in yourself to care. You suspect you won’t have enough time to take notes—instead too busy trying to stay afloat amidst the verbal traps Hannibal lays for you.

“Oh, Abigail Hobbs,” Chilton says, his eyes alight with recognition, “How is she doing?”

“She’s doing well,” you answer, thinking back to your past few interactions. She’s happier than she used to be, but you fear she’ll never be quite the same. Not that you blame her—if you were in her position, you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself. “About as well as a person can do, in her situation.” 

“That’s understandable,” Chilton hums, frowning in sympathy. For once, you think the expression on his face may actually be genuine. Although, once you remember that Chilton had tried to get Abigail confined to these dark halls, you have to second guess that notion. 

Hannibal is rather far down the hall, you realize as you continue walking. At some point, you come across a door leading to yet another hallway. Chilton comes to a stop before the door, turning to regard you with an unreadable expression. 

“What exactly are you hoping to get from Lecter?” He asks. There it is—the question you’d been waiting for him to ask. It was only a matter of time before Chilton’s curiosity got the best of him. Honestly, you’re somewhat impressed that he kept his lips sealed this long. 

“Have you heard of the Tooth Fairy?” You ask. 

“The folktale?” Chilton asks with furrowed brows. “The fairy that puts teeth under children’s pillows when they lose them?” You blink at him once, then twice. 

“I- not that Tooth Fairy,” you choke out, feeling a laugh bubbling out of you. Leave it to Frederick Chilton to assume that the FBI is investigating an imaginary creature. You take a deep breath and manifest more patience. “The man who killed the Jacobis and the Leedses—the killer who bites his victims.”

“Oh, yes,” Chilton nods. 

“He’s been eluding us,” you explain, “Leaving behind little to no evidence. It’s been a while since someone has commanded the FBI’s attention so masterfully.” You raise your eyebrows pointedly, and understanding flashes in Chilton’s eyes. You don’t have to expand on that statement—the remainder of the remark floats in the air, unspoken but omnipresent. It’s been a while… since we’ve seen someone as perplexing as Hannibal Lecter. 

“Ah, I see,” Chilton sighs, pulling his identification card from his pocket. “Very well.” He holds his badge up to the badge reader near the door, before covering the pin pad with one hand and typing in a passcode with the other. A green light flashes on the pin pad and the door creaks open ominously. 

“I hope you find what you’re looking for, truly,” Chilton continues, as the two of you stroll down the hallway. Your heart is roaring in your ears, making it a bit more difficult to comprehend what the man’s saying. “I can’t promise that Lecter will be any help, though. As I said earlier, he’s been… uncharacteristically quiet since he first arrived.” 

“Thanks for the warning,” you answer. “I’ll see what I can do.” Somehow, you get the feeling Hannibal will be a bit more talkative with you. At the very least, you’re not Chilton. Besides, wasn’t a motivating factor behind his imprisonment the fact that you would be forced to know where he was? You wouldn’t be surprised if Hannibal has been lying in wait, anticipating the moment you’d need to interact with him. 

“The visitation limit is fifty minutes,” Chilton reminds you. That must’ve changed since the last time you visited—you remember it being an hour in the past. Ten minutes doesn’t seem like it will make much of a difference, but if it’s a matter of life and death… You sigh. It shouldn’t get to that. “He’s at the end of the hall, on the left.”

You nod and thank him. Chilton regards you for one last moment, before retreating back down the hall and into the shadows. You’re left lurking awkwardly in the middle of the hall. One of the prisoners jeers at you, saying something about you looking better with your eyeballs gouged out. You ignore the remark and continue walking. 

You’re nearing the end of the hall. Ten steps. Your breaths sound ragged. Nine steps. There’s someone rattling the bars of their cell next to you. Eight steps. Your shoes make small clicking sounds against the floors, alerting everyone to your presence. Seven, six, five, four steps. You’re biting the inside of your cheek so hard you can taste blood. Three steps. Your cuticle stings. You pick at the skin, welcoming the pain. Two steps. His cell, his cage, falls into view. There’s a sweeping glass wall covering the entirety of the space, with small holes carving through the glass at rhythmic intervals. There are elegant white bookshelves stacked to the brim with tomes of all shapes and sizes. A break in the glass reveals a metal slot, likely for food and mail. In the corner of the room sits a desk, near a dining table and chair. A domed window sits on the ceiling, ushering in the afternoon sunlight.

The privilege of it all… It makes you sick. Most prisoners aren’t nearly so lucky. Minor offenders get treated far, far worse than this—with grimy, shared showers and cement walls in lieu of windows. Most prisoners get a single, paper-thin mattress and nothing else. 

But Hannibal Lecter is not the same as most prisoners. He is a serial killer with a distinguished mask, crafted with swooping elegant lines and laced with pretense. The Chesapeake Ripper remains prominent in the eyes of the public. There have been countless documentaries and articles about him. Everyone wants to get inside his head; everyone wants to determine how someone with exquisite table manners and a penchant for elaborate dinner parties—someone in the upper echelons of society—can fall so far into criminality. 

One more step. 

You’re frozen. You don’t want to cross the threshold, don’t want to surrender your camouflage. You’ve spent years trying to get this man out of your head, and you know that the moment you take that last step forward, he’ll be roaming the halls of your mind palace once more. 

Then you think of the Jacobis and the Leedses, and remember why you’re here. The Tooth Fairy has escaped the FBI for far too long, leaving little in the way of evidence save for crumpled corpses and mutilated bodies. The man needs to be caught. You think of all the victims you failed to save, of all the times you were confined to the aftermath of gruesome murders.

Selfishly speaking, you don’t want to move. Hell, you’ve had your moments of selfishness—moments when you’ve prioritized self-preservation. It’s a skill you’re often told you need to embrace more. Jack said as much to you all those years ago, didn’t he?

“You can leave this behind,” Crawford had said to you after your first assignment, his lips set in a thin line. “Get another job. Have a normal life.” He had pushed himself up to stand over you. You still remember the look on his face in that moment: how his eyes gleamed with firm resolve. “Or you can walk out of this door with me, back to headquarters.” It hadn’t taken you long to come to a decision. After a few seconds, you got to your feet and followed after him.   

You surrendered desire, forfeited comfort long ago. Preference bends to the whims of necessity. You never really had a choice. You take a step forward, the fluorescent lighting above seeping into your skin. There’s a figure sitting at the ornate writer’s desk in the corner of the room, clad in a white jumpsuit. You take another step forward, despite your apprehension, and the noise draws his attention. The Chesapeake Ripper turns around, his eyes gleaming with life when his gaze falls on your form. 

“Hello, Dr. Lecter,” you remark.

It is far too late to go back.

next chapter

endnotes

Hannibal is backkk!!! idk why the mf took so long to appear 🙄

as always, thank you for reading! feel free to reblog or drop a comment if you're enjoying this story so far. :3

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[defectivevillain]

this broken design, ch 4

summary

“Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried. You quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

read from the beginning here! [this won’t make much sense, otherwise]

[ao3 version]

warnings: mentions of religion & religious trauma, suicidal ideation. there’s also mention of coming out and the difficulties with finding identity (in terms of both gender and sexuality).

The air is cold and frigid. You puff out a breath as you lock your car and walk up the path steps towards Hannibal’s office. Your appointment is in a few minutes. Honestly, looking back, you’re surprised that you’ve been seeing Hannibal for so long. Your past therapists never lasted long—you’d either scare them off or they’d say something that hinted at their true, rather dislikable character. You seem to be making genuine progress in your meetings with Hannibal. As much as you’d like to tease and mock him for his rather lavish tastes, he’s good at what he does.

Your conversation from the last session is still running through your mind. It had been rather difficult to keep your awareness hidden; after all, you’re pretty sure that Hannibal isn’t aware of your knowledge of the Ripper [namely, that you know he is the Chesapeake Ripper]. Since your last session, you’ve been to his home a few times. You must admit, it feels rather weird each time you visit his residence. Hannibal is just so… different from you—he’s much more sophisticated and upper-class. You’ve never really made friends with people like that before. Ironically, his affluence isn’t even the strangest quality about him. After all, he eats people. You have to be careful about what you eat when you’re at his home—you’re starting to run out of excuses for not consuming his cooking. One time, you said you had already eaten. Another time, you ate it but then had to go to the bathroom to spit it out. Digesting human meat is not one of your desires. Just the thought makes your stomach turn. You get the nagging feeling that Hannibal knows your excuses aren’t exactly genuine, but he hasn’t said anything yet. In the meantime, you’ll continue to feign ignorance.

You aren’t waiting in the lobby of Hannibal’s office for very long before Hannibal is ushering you in. “Please, have a seat,” he says, closing the door behind you and then gesturing at the open chairs. You squint at the chairs. They look closer together, for some reason. You sit down and blink at Hannibal, who stares back at you for a few moments. Before long, the tension is gone and you’re talking about your recent fieldwork. Unsurprisingly, your conversation soon falls to Garret Jacob Hobbs. His death has been weighing on you more than you’d like to admit.

“I can’t stop thinking about Hobbs,” you say. Hannibal raises an eyebrow. “I’ve been losing sleep because of it.” Your sleep has never been very good to begin with, but since the Hobbs incident, you spend even more time lying awake at night. You can never decide if you want to sleep and watch yourself murder the man again, or remain awake and sleep-deprived. It’s a lose-lose situation, really.

“In your dreams, what do you see?”

“I see myself killing him,” you respond. Hannibal doesn’t seem surprised by the admission. “Over and over and over again. I see Abigail slowly fading on that kitchen floor. I see the blood spattered on my hands. And… I feel a smile on my face.” You’ve had nightmares about killers before. Hobbs, though… You’re certain he’ll stay with you forever. Your first kill.

“And, when you wake up?” Hannibal asks. You fall silent and he continues to clarify. “Dreams are often a pathway into the parts of our minds that we hide away from others. Perhaps there is some truth in these dreams. Perhaps, what you’re most afraid of…”

“I don’t feel guilty,” you supply with a whisper, so quickly and quietly that you’re certain Hannibal won’t hear it. Somehow, he does notice your remark and he raises an eyebrow. The words slip from your lips before you can stop them. “Killing Hobbs felt good.” There’s a buzzing sound reverberating in your ears as you finally utter the words that have been weighing you down for so long. You clench your fists at your sides and dig your nails into your palms.

“You shot him nine times,” Hannibal points out. The statement is not intended to be malicious— it’s merely truthful. Hannibal looks entirely relaxed, as he clasps his hands and stares at you expectantly. You take a deep breath, feeling rather overwhelmed with his insistent gaze.

“I know,” you say. “I just- I couldn’t get rid of this bone-deep urge to make him hurt—the way he hurt all those girls. I wanted… vengeance. Is that so wrong?” That last question is rhetorical in nature, but the gleam in Hannibal’s eyes sharpens. The fire in the fireplace spits out embers.

“It is not,” Hannibal responds. Of course the Chesapeake Ripper would believe that, you think to yourself. You’re not sure how reassuring his statement is, though. “Killing must feel good to God, too. He does it all the time, and are we not created in his image?” A shiver rolls down your spine at that. Is that how Hannibal justifies his own kills? As you dissect that statement, memories flicker before your eyes—church pews, gilded crosses, menacing stares.

“That’s a whole different can of worms,” you murmur after a few seconds, leaning back in your chair and crossing one leg over the other. You intend for the remark to be for yourself, but Hannibal seems to hear it anyway.

“Religion?” You nod, your throat burning. Hannibal stares at you and, while he doesn’t ask for you to continue, there is a somewhat expectant look on his face. You decide to indulge him, if only for the fact that his gaze is rather intense. Plus, hell, you’re already here. This is supposed to be therapy, after all.

“I grew up in a religious household,” you start, trying to collect your thoughts. Your heart is racing out of your chest—you’d never gotten this far with any of your other therapists. “Kind of delayed the whole… realization of my gender identity and sexuality.” Hannibal doesn’t seem the slightest bit surprised at the mention of either concept. You have to tell yourself not to think about that.

“How so?” The psychiatrist isn’t demanding in his questioning—he just seems… curious. You can’t help but feel grateful for the fact that Hannibal isn’t trying to pry this information out of you. Your past experiences made you think that you always had to disclose information, regardless of how painful it was to do so.

“Anything that falls outside of the binary is sinful. That’s what I was taught, at least. I wasn’t given any room for questioning and introspection, so I spent the better part of my young life pretending to be someone else.” You take a deep breath.

“Obviously, that wore me down. I figured it all out and I’m here now, but…  I didn’t expect myself to make it this long.” Memories flash before your eyes, as you remember all the melancholy birthday parties and the existential dread that plagued you for so long. You chance a glance at Hannibal, who looks extremely troubled by your last statement. You know it’s mostly professional concern, but the tightness to his frame almost makes you think his concern is of a different nature. You quickly rid yourself of the notion. His entire job revolves around keeping you happy and, well, alive. Surely that’s the only source of his concern. After all, it would reflect badly on him if you were to… Well.

“I am glad you’re here, if that is any consolation,” Hannibal remarks, after the silence begins to hurt. You long gave up on trying to return his eye contact—it’s too overwhelming. Despite the fact that you’re steadily avoiding his gaze, you can still feel his eyes fixated on you. It’s clear that Hannibal can read through the lines and ascertain the true meaning behind your admission.“I would be… saddened, to say the least, if you weren’t.” The clock on the opposite wall ticks and for a moment, you’re so mesmerized by its movement that you don’t fully comprehend Hannibal’s statement. When you manage to process it, you feel your eyes begin to burn.

“Thanks,” you choke out. Tears slip down your face and you wipe them away quickly. You always hated crying. You bury your head in your hands and take a moment to close your eyes, trying to avoid the acknowledgement that you’re crying in front of Hannibal. As you recollect your composure, you notice that there’s an element of restraint evident in Hannibal’s posture—as if he’s stopping himself from breaking the distance between you and placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. He’s a good friend, you think to yourself.

After you regain your composure, you talk a little more about your upbringing and the long, harrowing process that brought you to where you are now. Hannibal mostly listens, but he occasionally asks clarifying questions or offers comments. You find the practice to be relieving; you’ve never quite talked about this journey with anyone.

After an immeasurable amount of time, there’s a brief lull in the conversation and you allow your gaze to wander. Your eyes find the window and, to your surprise, you realize that it’s dark outside. A glance down at your watch tells you that your appointment should have been finished a few minutes ago.

“It’s been fifty minutes,” you remark, surprised that you’re the one to bring it up. Hannibal always keeps track of the time for you. In fact, you think that he has his watch for that specific purpose. It’s rather uncharacteristic of him to lose track of time.

“Forgive me,” Hannibal says, standing up and looking down at you. You feel weirdly intimidated by the gesture, as he practically looms over you from your sitting position. “I was enchanted by your story.” You place your hands on the arms of the chair, seeking physical support. You almost feel like a pinned butterfly—flayed apart and thrown on display for him to dissect with a clever eye.

“I’m not sure enchanted is the word you’re looking for, but alright.” You frown, pushing yourself off the chair and pacing around his office. You feel unusually restless; this particular session was freeing, but it also took a lot of energy to retell your story.

“Isn’t it?” You swivel on your heel, only for Hannibal to be right behind you. You lean back habitually, feeling rather winded all of a sudden. Your back falls against the ladder behind you. Hannibal is trapping you. You grasp the wooden ladder and inhale sharply. You feel like prey cornered by a predator—a deer faced with a prowling lion. In this very moment, you can see exactly why the Chesapeake Ripper is so dangerous. Hannibal’s brown eyes are the darkest you’ve ever seen them; looking into them feels like staring into a deep dark void.

Hannibal leans closer—to do something—when suddenly the door to the office falls open. You turn to look at the disturbance, only to find a man in the doorway. He looks from you to Hannibal—who is still standing quite close to you—and his eyebrows furrow. “Doctor Lecter,” the man says, tearing you from your thoughts. You look at him in confusion. The man must have let himself in. You can’t quite hide a grimace at that. From what you’ve learned about Hannibal so far, he absolutely abhors rudeness. Entering his office without invitation and interrupting a conversation is certainly impolite.

“Franklyn,” Hannibal remarks, his back to the door. His eyes are still fixated on you, and his breath nearly hits your neck as he speaks. “I wasn’t expecting you just yet.” Hannibal looks entirely irritated and frustrated, unsurprisingly. What is surprising, however, is the source of his anger. It’s as if he’s resentful of the fact that your conversation was cut short.

“It’s six o’clock,” the man frowns, his gaze wandering to the clock on the wall. “You must have gotten distracted!” He clearly means that lightly, but Hannibal’s expression is cold and blank. Thankfully, the man—Franklyn, apparently—can’t see it. Instead, he just vibrates incessantly from the doorway. You can’t be bothered to argue with this turn of events, so instead you nod at Hannibal and step around him.

Before you leave, however, you take a moment to assess the stranger that begs Hannibal’s attention. Franklyn appears to be a rather sweaty man, and he’s wearing weirdly formal attire for a therapy session. There’s something about him that sets you off, but you’re not sure what it is. Franklyn appears to be innocent enough, but there’s something dark lurking underneath his surface. You’re sure that you don’t want to know what it could be, so you settle for walking out of the office and closing the door behind you. The sickening sweetness of the man’s neuroticism clings to your skin and you feel the visceral need to take a shower.

“Who was that?” You hear the man ask Hannibal once you’re in the waiting room. You don’t intend to overhear their conversation, but Franklyn isn’t exactly quiet. Curious to hear Hannibal’s explanation, you freeze in place and wait to hear his response. His voice is just barely heard through the wooden door. You’re more than aware that eavesdropping isn’t exactly polite, but you don’t really care. Besides, you’re not listening in on the actual session—just the casual conversation they’re having. Selfishly speaking, you want to hear what Hannibal thinks of you.

“...A friend.” You feel a smile growing on your face. You don’t stay to hear Franklyn’s response to that—instead deigning to step out of the waiting room and walk back to your car. Despite having little context for the conversation, you’re happy with the thought of Hannibal considering you a friend. When you finally slip into bed that night, calculating brown eyes and a kind yet dangerous smile follow you in your dreams.

next chapter

#defectivevillain #hannibal lecter #hannibal nbc #hannibal lecter x male reader #hannibal lecter x reader #masc reader #transmasc reader #male reader

[defectivevillain]

this winding labyrinth, ch4

chapter 4: regurgitation

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader is not gendered, race-ambiguous, and no physical descriptors are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is chapter 4, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapters 1-3, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: canon-typical blood, violence, and gore; animal death; smoking, addiction. (justification for these two narrative choices in the endnotes)

Sometimes, the mirror looks at you first. 

Your mistakes and your crimes haunt you at every turn, inhabiting the shadows behind your back and the reflection before your eyes until all you can hear is gunfire and all you can see is blood dripping down your skin. Your knuckles ache in remembrance, your finger refuses to stop twitching. You flinch at every minute noise, stiffen at every passing shadow. Sure, you passed your psychological evaluation. Sure, you’ve returned to teaching and fieldwork. And you’re okay. 

Sure.

Despite everything that has happened to you recently, it’s both grounding and disturbing to remember that the world hasn’t really changed in your absence. There are still too many criminals to catch, and not enough people fighting to find them. There will always be corpses. You will always be left to handle the aftermath. How many people have to be killed before a murderer reaches the desk of Jack Crawford? You find yourself going to the Bureau’s library during the majority of your time between lessons, desperate for answers to the questions that have remained unsolved. Is there truly a way to prevent criminals from becoming criminals in the first place? How many strings have to snap for a person to consider killing another? ( Not very many, Clark Ingram leers in your ear.)

Your attitude towards criminality has changed in the time you’ve spent at the FBI. Before, you were optimistic—perhaps a little naive. Not only did you believe that every person had the potential to change, but you wholeheartedly believed that they wanted to change. You’ve met too many killers now to be so deluded, to think that they would choose mercy over malice when given the option. You’ve been burned before—put aside your misgivings, suppressed any reasonable doubt in the face of a charming smile and glittering eyes. You don’t intend to let anything like that happen again. 

If only intention caved so easily. In all reality, it could very well happen again. You know damn well you’re not exactly in the safest state of mind at the present moment. Dueling desires for solitude and company wage war in your mind, making your actions puzzling at best and contradictory at worst. You’re losing your self-concept, blurring your own visage until you’re a muddled mess of darkness and inexplicable spots of color. 

In the past, when you felt untethered, you’d submerge yourself in work. That’s one thing about you that hasn’t changed. When you don’t have the answers, when you can’t quite silence the self-deprecating commentary constantly playing in your mind, you turn to paperwork and cold cases. You rifle through photographs of gruesome murder scenes that look achingly familiar. You find yourself committing particularly difficult cases to memory, if only to keep your mind busy.

Cold cases aren’t your priority, however. After all, you’re a field agent. The majority of your work is focused on the murderers that still roam the streets—the ones that leave behind victims gasping for breath and puddles of crimson. There is no shortage of cruel acts to keep you occupied, as you track down killers of all walks of life. 

And you have some close calls. After your muted conversation with Jack in the hospital all those months ago, you take extra caution and care when you’re in the field. But you’re still human. You get scratches and scrapes, bruises and the occasional graze of a bullet. Thankfully, you don’t sustain an injury serious enough to warrant a hospital visit, but your wounds are still prominent enough to leave marks on your body and draw your attention in the mirror. 

As time passes, the scars you acquire set into your skin, and you realize that the pain you once felt is never far. Your body is slowly growing into a tapestry of marks, littered with remnants of unspeakable cruelty. Each scar is a reminder that you survived another monster, and the thought brings you equal gratitude and guilt. On good days, the marks are badges of honor; on bad days, they send you spiraling as you question why you were chosen to survive.

Crime never rests, and neither do you. Your sleep continues to be positively awful, as you’re plagued with nightmares. Abel Gideon smiles as he sinks a knife between your ribs; Frederick Chilton towers over you with a gleaming eye; Clark Ingram shoves you into a horse’s womb, next to its still beating heart and warm organs; Franklyn Froideveaux sits in your office, asking you why you sentenced him to his death. Abigail Hobbs chokes on her own blood as her throat is sliced; Peter Bernardone is strangled to death with a lead rope.

The worst of your nightmares doesn’t feature any of these people. Instead, you’re seated in the chair in Hannibal’s office. The clock ticks on the wall. Your leg bounces restlessly. Hannibal appears to be writing or sketching something on his notepad. He makes no acknowledgement of your presence.

You soon grow accustomed to falling entirely silent in that office chair, to inhaling and exhaling quietly, to not making a single movement or sound. You are delivered to this nightmare three times. It shouldn’t scare you. Yet there is something in the air of that office, some unspoken tension and anticipation that sends sweat rolling down your neck and forces you to wake in your bedroom with panting breaths. Each time you wake, your abdomen burns and the scar on your face stings. 

You don’t tell anyone about this recurring nightmare. As you take on another case, the subject of your nightmares becomes the killer you’re searching for and the victims she’s already left behind. And, slowly but surely, you begin to forget that suffocating silence. 

Months later, though, when an uneasy sleep returns you to Hannibal’s office once more, you aren’t prepared. You sit on the chair and take a deep breath. Hannibal’s pencil—which hasn’t ever stopped skittering and gliding across the paper—stills at the noise. His head slowly rises until he’s looking at you, and suddenly everything around you seems inconsequential. You feel like the breath has been ripped right from your chest. His gaze steadily rips you apart, layer by layer. 

When you wake, you can’t fall asleep again. You spend the rest of the night and early morning trying to rid yourself of the feeling of eyes on you. Sometimes, when you blink, you can see Hannibal in your entryway. (Sometimes, when you blink, you see him standing next to you as you look over a victim’s body, humming in disinterest.) 

You’ve been trying to bury your memories of the past, but they aren’t quite as far away as you’d like. Hannibal Lecter still has a tight grip on your waking mind. You are unable to forget him. (“I want you to know exactly where I am, and where you can always find me.”) 

As it turns out, no one is keen to forget Hannibal Lecter. The Chesapeake Ripper still dominates the news and the papers. The public is fascinated with Hannibal, with the skilled surgeon-psychiatrist with no obvious indicators of insanity and a rather steep kill count. Even though Hannibal is imprisoned, his name doesn’t seem to leave the mouths of FBI trainees talking amongst themselves or news anchors reporting on crimes. Nearly everyone is fascinated, intrigued by the story of Hannibal Lecter. There are a few exceptions, fortunately. Namely, Jack Crawford, Beverly, and Alana are the few people who treat you as they always do. 

Still, you’re close to a breaking point. All the attention on the Chesapeake Ripper is making it utterly impossible to forget him. You want to move on more than anything, but everyone around you is constantly reminding you of the fear, betrayal, remorse, anger, and helplessness that clung to you after Hannibal stabbed you and nearly left you to die in his office. You’re forced to relive the worst night of your life again and again and again. 

You don’t have patience for people who just want information from you. So when you see Freddie Lounds waiting for you as you exit a crime scene one afternoon, you’re extremely apprehensive. As you walk to your car, you find yourself unwittingly getting closer to Freddie in the process. You’re waiting for her to start asking you about the crime scene or the Chesapeake Ripper. Instead, Freddie simply nods at you. You blink at her, before hesitantly nodding back. 

From then on, Freddie seems to make a habit of breaking your expectations. Like right now, for instance. You’re leaving another crime scene, another corpse, when you see Freddie sitting on the steps of a nearby building, a cigarette dangling between her fingers. She beckons you closer and, after a moment’s consideration, you settle on the stairs next to her. Freddie wordlessly holds out her carton of cigarettes. You regard it with a mix of emotions. You know you shouldn’t take her up on the offer, know damn well that the last thing you need in your life is addiction. 

But there’s a small voice in the back of your mind, whispering to you that the cigarettes will offer you a safety that you can’t get anywhere else. It’s growing louder and louder, amplified as it echoes in the empty chamber of your mind palace. You take a deep breath. What more do you have to lose?

“No time like the present,” you eventually acquiesce with a grimace, before grabbing a cigarette. Somewhere, somehow, this feels like the point of no return. You’ve crossed a line that there can be no coming back from. 

“Yeah,” Freddie responds eloquently, immune to your internal crisis. She reaches out to light your cigarette. You stare at the smoke emanating from it. Truthfully, you’ve never smoked before. You watch Freddie and try to emulate her movements, taking a deep breath before pressing the cigarette to your lips and inhaling. Immediately, you’re coughing. It takes you several seconds to regain your breath, and Freddie is absolutely no help—instead laughing maniacally at your suffering. 

“How have you been?” You ask, once Freddie has stopped laughing at your pain. “How are things with TattleCrime?”

“Boring, now that Lecter’s behind bars,” Freddie remarks. You choke on a laugh at her macabre honesty. And, in typical Freddie fashion, she entirely dodges the question directed towards her. She must be doing alright, you think, if she’s sitting out here peacefully. 

“I bet,” you grimace. TattleCrime’s entire brand relies on criminality. For a while there, Hannibal was dominating the front page. There’s clearly less source material now that he’s in prison. “Hey, you could write an article about me. My unsightly scar…” You break off, trying to remember other headlines or articles about you. That’s all you can remember, thankfully. You’ve been trying your best to keep yourself away from the news, because you know it typically brings nothing but trouble. Even so, it’s everywhere.

“Ah, yes, and how the Ripper left you alive?” Freddie says, “Because that topic isn’t exhausted just yet.” She continues wryly. You feel a slight smile rising on your face. No doubt, she has also taken notice of the extensive press coverage surrounding both Hannibal Lecter and, well, you. 

“It’s growing pretty ridiculous,” you admit, allowing yourself to think about it for a moment. Thoughts of Hannibal are never far, but you’ve grown used to suppressing them. With a slow inhale, you allow yourself to contemplate.  “I’ve heard everything from us being in a secret relationship to the Ripper not wanting to end his kill count on an odd number.” The statement is punctuated with a slow exhale of smoky breath. 

“What do you think?” Freddie asks, regarding you sincerely. Her gaze is attentive, but not intense. She is interested in hearing what you have to say, for reasons you can’t quite comprehend. “Why did he leave you alive?” 

“...To prove a point,” you respond hollowly. You’ve had plenty of time to come to terms with this unshakeable fact, yet you haven’t been able to fully grasp its implications just yet.  

“That’s grim,” the journalist admits, taking another drag. She glances at you in concern, you pretend not to notice—it’s a game you’re already accustomed to playing with Bev. “You’re certain?” Freddie asks. After a moment’s contemplation, you shake your head wordlessly. Of course you’re not certain. Hannibal isn’t so easily predictable. Your hand unconsciously rises to touch the scar on your face. 

“Gideon gave you that scar,” Freddie recalls with a frown. She brings her cigarette to her lips again and her shirt sleeve slips down in the process, revealing abrasions around her wrist. You aren’t the only one with scars from that night, it seems. 

“It was healing,” you whisper, goosebumps rising on your skin as you touch the scar. You’re not sure why your voice has fallen so quiet—there is no one else around to hear you. Still, the admission feels damning. “Then… Hannibal tore it open again.”

There’s a startled intake of breath. “On purpose?” Freddie asks. 

“I think so,” you agree, trying to reach the words caught in your throat. You look down at the pavement beneath your feet. Eye contact feels too difficult right now. “I have to wonder if he knew… knew I’d be forced to see him in my mind’s eye every time I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror.” Your throat feels tight. Surely, he would’ve known. Was that his parting gift—a reopened wound, a permanent remnant of what you had?

“Hey, did he really surrender?” Freddie frowns, looking to you for clarification.

You nod. “He surrendered in my driveway,” you elaborate, before you can contemplate the consequences of giving the TattleCrime journalist confidential information. 

“Really?” Freddie gasps, her eyes widening. 

“Yeah,” you confirm. You’re not sure why you’re telling Freddie about this—perhaps because she’s a good listener; perhaps because you just need to tell someone. When you blink, you can see the headlights of Jack’s police car burning through the darkness; when you blink, you can see Hannibal’s eyes gleaming in the dark, pinning you in place. “He said he wanted me to know where he would be, and where I could always find him.” The Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, one of the voices reminds you. You shake your head and turn to Freddie, only to realize that she has been struck speechless. 

“And that isn’t the only scar,” you continue with a wry laugh. At Freddie’s questioning look, you take a deep breath and lift up your shirt—just high enough to show her the faded scar on your side. “He snuck into my hospital room and took my kidney ...Then he fed it to me.” You shudder in remembrance, almost able to feel the familiar burning sensation curdling in your throat as you unknowingly digested your own flesh.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but tense silence. Freddie then sighs. “I’m thinking you’ll need these more than I will,” she says shakily, handing you the carton of cigarettes. You take it instinctually. “How in the hell are you still alive?”

“I’ve been wondering that myself,” you admit quietly. The admission settles heavily in the air, creating an uncomfortable tension. “Why do I get to live, when everyone who has ever interacted with the Ripper before has died?” What makes a victim? What makes a survivor? 

“I’d almost say it’s luck, but… if anything, it’d be bad luck.” Freddie responds with a hum. She clasps her hands on her knees. A soft breeze rolls through the air and rustles her hair. 

“You’re probably right,” you acquiesce. The sun begins to recede behind a nearby cloud in the pale blue sky. Sometimes, when you look up at the sky, you wonder if Hannibal is able to look up at it too. 

“Everyone’s saying Lecter has special privileges as a prisoner.” Freddie says, as if sensing your thoughts. She’s looking to you for confirmation.

“I wouldn’t know,” you say with a shake of your head. At Freddie’s confused glance, you elaborate. “I haven’t visited.” She nods. “I can certainly see how he gets special treatment, though. No one understands the Ripper, so he’s an enigma to everyone. Plus, Hannibal is rather respected in the medical world. He was a really good surgeon, from what I’ve heard. Several publications in The American Journal of Psychiatry…… I’m sure Chilton’s having fun with him, though,” you say, a weary smile rising on your face. 

“Oh, that reminds me… Look at this.” Freddie reaches into her bag and pulls out her phone. She squints down at it and types in her passcode, before proceeding to tap it a few times. You wait patiently. Moments later, she turns up the brightness on her screen and hands her phone to you. You squint down at the screen.  

“ Hannibal the Cannibal: The Savory Mind of Dr. Lecter ?” You recite aloud, unable to hide your disbelief at the thought of Frederick Chilton publishing an entire book about Hannibal. You can’t help but wonder how he got enough information from him to write it—especially when considering Hannibal’s casual contempt for Chilton. 

“I know, right?” Freddie laughs at your shock. “I doubt Lecter’s very happy about it.” She exhales in a puff of smoke. 

“Oh, the back cover blurb for the book is on here,” you say, staring at it for a moment before beginning to read aloud. “The trial of Dr. Hannibal Lecter revealed to the public another side of a man who was a respected member of proper society in Baltimore. A man who was respected as one of the most brilliant psychiatric minds among his peers. A man who was a gourmand and often entertained society’s elite at soirées where they wined and dined on expertly prepared exotic dishes prepared by the host himself-”

“Did you ever go to one of his parties?” Freddie interjects. 

“No, thankfully,” you say, “But he brought me food… one of the first times we met. I had no idea, so I ate it, of course.” You shudder, thinking back to a dimly lit hotel room, a steady gaze, and an unfamiliar taste on your tongue. 

Freddie seems to have another question on the tip of her tongue, but she’s holding back. You squint at her, before deciding to just ask her if she has a question. Sure enough, she does. It takes the journalist a few moments to ask it. “...Did you ever suspect him?” Freddie’s question is no louder than a whisper, but it seems to reverberate through your mind with all the force of an ear-shattering scream. 

“...Yes,” you admit, because the secret has been eating you alive from the inside-out. A small weight has been lifted from your shoulders, but it’s inconsequential when compared to the blood on your hands. You chance a glance at Freddie. She doesn’t look entirely surprised, although she is staring straight ahead with a slightly troubled expression. “Constantly.” You choke out before you can stop yourself. 

Recognition flashes in Freddie’s eyes and there’s a stab of fear in your chest. “You knew he wouldn’t leave behind enough evidence,” Freddie realizes aloud. Your fear fades, replaced instead with guilt. You know your words will betray you, so you just nod your head silently in agreement. In reality, Freddie is giving you way too much credit. Desperate to change the subject, you return your attention to the blurb on the back of Chilton’s book and continue reading. 

“...A man who worked as a psychological profiler for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. A man who was in fact the notorious Chesapeake Ripper. An infamous serial killer with a murderous career as shocking as it is prolific. The trial of Dr. Lecter—shocking as it was, was only the beginning of the disturbing story of the man who became known as Hannibal the Cannibal.

“This book is a deep psychiatric assessment from the very Doctor who worked with Dr. Lecter as well as knew him once as a friend-” You sputter and stop, nearly choking on laughter. “A friend? That’s definitely a stretch.” You think back to how Hannibal introduced himself to Chilton, to the thinly-veiled fury in Hannibal’s eyes as he lingered on the edges of your conversation with Gideon. ( “Stay away from Lecter. I was the same, you know—enamored with my wife. It doesn't last long, trust me-”)

“Chilton annoyed Lecter, didn’t he?” Freddie asks, pulling you out of your memories. You’re thankful for the interruption; it takes you a moment to process her question. Once you do, you’re quick to nod in confirmation. Freddie doesn’t seem surprised by that. “I get the sense Lecter doesn’t quite… do friends, anyway,” she then remarks. That’s an accurate assessment, you think. What Freddie says next shocks you, though. “I think he made an exception for you.”

“Me?” You whisper.

“You,” Freddie nods, staring at you perplexedly—as if she didn’t anticipate you to question that statement. You decide not to probe that topic any further, instead settling on continuing to recite the blurb. 

“A revealing study of what caused Lecter to torture and kill the people around him. What caused him to even eat his victims and feed them to unknowing house guests. A perfect storm of brilliance, violence and psychotic behavior that resulted in one of the worst serial killers in history… 

“Chilton is a shitty writer.” You finish with a heavy sigh.

“Agreed,” Freddie nods. You hand her phone back to her and she scrolls further down in the article before reciting more text. “About the Author: Dr. Frederick Chilton… most recently has been working as the Hospital Director of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane where he worked directly with and studied Dr. Lecter himself. 

“Yeah, even I know that’s a load of bullshit.” Freddie concludes with a roll of her eyes. For a few minutes, the air falls still between you. Then, Freddie’s voice breaks the silence. “Do you think you’ll ever see Lecter again?” You swallow hard. 

“I don’t know,” you respond. The dishonesty makes your skin prickle, as that statement lies in firm contradiction with the inexplicable yet assured knowledge that some time, some day, you will have to see Hannibal Lecter again. It may not be soon. It may not be today, tomorrow, or the next day, so you stick with your noncommittal answer. At some point, you know you’ll need to consult the Chesapeake Ripper. One day, another elusive murderer will come along—one who defies the FBI’s carefully devised reason and rationality and subverts all attempts at identification and capture. 

But you will not meet this killer for several more years. In every moment leading up to that fateful interaction, you will have to grapple with the inexplicable, irremovable apprehension settling in your chest—the one that whispers Hannibal Lecter is closer than you think, in a soft murmur. You pinch the bridge of your nose and take another drag, settling into the quiet alongside Freddie Lounds. 

Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, unbeknownst to you, a tall man with sharp eyes and a cleft lip opens the door to Gateway Film Laboratory in St. Louis, Missouri. The clerk greets him with a smile, before their eyes catch on the paper in his hand. Lips pressed taut, the man inhales slowly and hands them his job application. 

“Lovely to meet you… Francis Dolarhyde,” the clerk says, addressing him by name once they read it on the paper. Their gaze rises to meet him once more. “Thank you for your application. I’m sure you’ll be hearing from us very soon.”

next chapter

The excerpts from Chilton's book are taken directly from the prop used in the show.

Justification: In this fic, smoking is used primarily as a narrative device. The reader picking up smoking is largely indicative of the stress and trauma they've had to go through in the years following the Ripper's capture. Also, smoking provides them a little solace. Smoking (as you probably know) blackens your lungs and severely damages them. The reader is aware of this and, perhaps a small part of them takes comfort in the fact that they're destroying their organs—making them inedible for a cannibal (cough, cough, Hannibal).

I know that's pretty macabre, and I want to emphasize once more that I am not encouraging smoking. It's sort of romanticized in this fic, as are a lot of things that really shouldn't be. In reality, smoking is harmful. I'm not trying to patronize any readers who smoke—I just want to make it clear that I am also not trying to encourage it in any way whatsoever. The events of the last book have really affected the reader, prompting them to find different (and less reliable) coping mechanisms. Being stabbed by someone you consider to be a friend (and perhaps even something more) is not something that a person can recover from in the blink of an eye.

thanks for reading! <3

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