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defectivevillain · 6 days

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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!

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defectivevillain · 27 days

Text

the wolf among us

Bigby Wolf

rest for the weary

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defectivevillain · 27 days

Text

rest for the weary

pairing: Bigby Wolf/Reader

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

summary: There is silence for far too long. You’re intently focused on wiping his skin clean of the dried bloodstains, making sweeping gestures with infinite care. Bigby wants to reassure you that you don’t have to be so careful, that he’s used to cruelty and maleficent gazes and bloodied knuckles. But the words feel caught in his throat. This compassion is so foreign to him; he can’t help but instinctively wonder if there’s something you’re getting out of this.

word count: 2.3k | ao3 version

warnings: canon-typical blood and violence, exhaustion/fatigue

After his long patrol, Bigby wants nothing more than to fall asleep and never wake up. He manages to get to his apartment, albeit with a bit more clumsiness and lethargy than usual. When he finally opens the door, he’s greeted with Colin’s irritated expression. The annoyed look on his face fades when he evidently gets a full glimpse of Bigby’s injuries. The wolf knows he must look horrible; he doesn’t have to look in the mirror to know there are dark circles under his eyes and dried bloodstains on his clothes.

“You look like shit,” Colin remarks helpfully.

“Thanks.” Bigby responds tiredly, limping towards his armchair. Colin is merciful today, and doesn’t even utter a word of argument as he gives up the seat and moves to sit on the floor. Bigby sinks into the armchair and just barely holds back a pained hiss. He tilts his head back and stares up at the ceiling, still reeling from the events that occurred on his patrol today. His adrenaline carried him through multiple fights, and it isn’t until quiet moments like these that the gravity of what he’s been through dawns on him.

Bigby’s eyes are slipping closed when he hears a harsh knock on his door. He groans and shuts his eyes again, wincing at the pain concentrated in his temple that is gradually migrating to his jaw. A nasty headache on top of his injuries—somehow, that tracks. Bigby waits to hear the sound of footsteps gradually growing further away.

Instead, there’s another knock—even louder than the previous one. Bigby groans again and Colin raises an eyebrow, as if to ask if he’s going to answer the door.

“Bigby.” The wolf’s heart skips a beat as he recognizes your voice. You live in the apartment below his: 104. You’re one of the only people who is nice to him, aside from Snow and Beauty. You never seemed to be afraid of him, which was refreshing. Selfishly speaking, Bigby doesn’t want you to see him in this state—doesn’t want you to start thinking of him as the Big Bad Wolf. You continue, immune to his internal dilemma. “I know you’re in there. Open up.” You say insistently.

Bigby doesn’t make a move to get up. He doesn’t think he can get to his feet and walk over to the door, even if he wanted to. Exhaustion is settling in his bones and he is close to drifting off into unconsciousness once he realizes that the knocking has stopped.

Suddenly, there’s a loud crash. Bigby is mercilessly tugged back from the throes of sleep as his front door swings open and crashes into the adjacent wall. He blinks slowly and pushes himself up in the chair, glancing at the front door to find you stumbling forward with uneasy balance. The two of you exchange looks and Bigby sees a flicker of regret and guilt appear on your face, before the emotions are replaced with a mischievous grin.

“That was fun,” you remark with a look of surprise. Then you glance around the room, murmuring a quick greeting to Colin, before looking back at him once more. The wolf stares at you in disbelief. “I can see why you do it so often.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Bigby asks, once he manages to process everything that just happened. He’s usually the one kicking doors down—he’s never been on the other side of the situation before. Bigby can’t say he likes it much.

“Checking in on you, obviously,” you answer, crossing your arms over your chest. Bigby realizes that this is the first time you’ve been in his apartment; typically, he visits you at yours or the two of you meet in the lobby. He’s mildly embarrassed by the dirty clothes and empty bottles laying around. The pain makes it easy to forget any potential humiliation, though. “I can see I was right to be worried.” You say as you study him, your lips pressed in a thin line.

“How did you-” Bigby chokes out.

“You were a bit louder than normal,” you respond easily. You’re looking at him with a scrutinizing gaze, as if you’re able to see straight through him. Bigby feels strangely exposed. “And your footsteps were… uneven.”

That’s it? Bigby thinks to himself. While he doesn’t utter the question, the sentiment must be clear on his face.

“I just knew something was wrong, okay?” You say defensively. You take a step forward and look him up and down, evidently concerned for his wellbeing. Bigby wants to remark that he’s suffered worse, but he knows that wouldn’t reassure you.

“Well, I’m fine,” Bigby remembers to say moments later. It’s getting a bit hard to breathe around his bruised ribs and he has to put conscious effort towards inhaling slowly.

You don’t seem to believe him for a moment. “You sound like a broken record,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “Come on.” You act as if you own the place, pacing past the entryway and moving towards the bathroom. Bigby watches you for several moments, before giving in with a sigh and pushing himself off the armchair. Every small movement sends pain shooting through him. He takes an uneasy step forward and stumbles, but Colin wordlessly pushes against his left leg and corrects his balance before he can fall. Bigby murmurs a word of thanks and heads to the bathroom.

When he finally makes it to his far too-small bathroom, you’re waiting for him. You gesture for him to sit on the toilet seat, which he does after a moment of hesitation. You have a damp cloth in hand and, once he sits, you’re washing the blood and dirt from his face with a gentle touch. Bigby flinches at how cold the water is, and you murmur a quick apology before continuing.

There is silence for far too long. You’re intently focused on his skin beneath the cloth, making sweeping gestures with infinite care. Bigby wants to reassure you that you don’t have to be so careful, that he’s used to cruelty and maleficent gazes and bloodied knuckles. But the words feel caught in his throat. This compassion is so foreign to him; he can’t help but instinctively wonder if there’s something you’re getting out of this.

Eventually, you finish with his face and begin cleaning his forearms. You push up his sleeves, wiping away the blood before staring at him with an unreadable expression. When you break the silence, Bigby notices that you’re suddenly averting your gaze. “You may need to… take off your shirt.”

Bigby stares at you for a moment, before comprehending the question. “Right,” he mutters, moving to unbutton his shirt with trembling hands. You don’t comment on how long the effort takes him, but Bigby does hear the stifled intake of breath that escapes your lips as your eyes rove up and down his torso. He looks down, finding the gaping wound at his side that you can’t seem to look away from.

You almost look sick to your stomach. But Bigby knows it can’t be from the grotesque nature of his wound—he knows you’ve seen your fair share of blood and violence. You live in the Fables, after all. Violence is an everyday occurrence. The wolf watches as you take a slow breath, as if to steady yourself, before grabbing the cloth and bending down to dab at the wound. Your equilibrium seems to be off, as you lurch forward with the movement. Bigby steadies you with a hand on your shoulder and you place your free hand on his side to steady yourself. He promptly ignores the heat that spreads across his skin at the casual touch.

A seemingly endless time later, you lean back and Bigby can breathe again. You assess his wound once more, eyebrows furrowing. “Do you have bandages?” Bigby shakes his head imperceptibly. You seem to be expecting that answer, as you sigh exasperatedly. “I’ll be right back.”

In the blink of an eye, you’re standing in front of him once more—holding a nondescript tube of ointment and a roll of bandages. At his questioning look, you explain that the ointment will prevent infection; you then apply a small amount on his wound, before placing the bandage on his skin and slowly wrapping it around his chest. Bigby remains silent the entire time, at a loss for words. Admittedly, this feels like a dream. He wouldn’t be surprised if he woke in a few minutes, staring up at the ceiling from his armchair in his bloodstained clothes.

But this is no dream. Your touch is all too real. Bigby feels as if his skin is doused in flames. Time seems to drag on with unrushed lethargy, trapping him in this horrible, incredible feeling. You step away too soon and too late.

“Sorry, I’m afraid that’s the best I can do,” you say with a frown. Bigby looks down at the bandage. His gaze returns to you. This is more than anyone has ever done for him. He has never been treated so delicately before. The warmth of your skin still lingers and Bigby thinks he wants it back. Your eyes are bright in the dim lighting of his bathroom and the realization comes crashing down on him. He thinks he wouldn’t mind if every day were to go like this, if he could return home to you every day. Indulgently, selfishly, he wants to drown in this very moment.

Bigby doesn’t know how it happens. One moment, you’re breathing a question he never imagined he would hear—not even in his wildest dreams. The next, he’s tugging you closer by the collar and kissing you. You lurch forward and place a hand on his shoulder to steady yourself. Bigby pulls you impossibly closer, relishing in the surprised sound that wrenches its way out of your throat. Your fingers run through his hair and goosebumps prickle along his forearms.

“I’m still here,” Colin announces from the living room. The moment is immediately broken, and Bigby regretfully lets his hands fall from your face. Your hands slip from the nape of his neck and the wolf feels a shiver roll down his spine. You’re staring at him again.

“I should get you some clothes,” you then announce, stepping out of the bathroom. He hears you pacing around the apartment until you find his closet; you return moments later with a shirt and sweatpants in hand. Admittedly, Bigby hasn’t worn that pair of sweatpants in years—he forgot he owned them. You then close the door and leave him to change. The effort isn’t painless, but within a few minutes, he’s in infinitely more comfortable clothing. Bigby gets to his feet and opens the door, walking out to the living room.

You look over from where you’d been speaking to Colin. “Now you should rest,” you order, walking towards him. “Let me get you to bed.” You place a reassuring hand on his shoulder and start looking around the space.

A maelstrom of unsavory emotions hits him all at once. “I don’t have a bed.” Bigby blurts out within moments. Your gaze snaps to him and your eyes are blown wide.

“What?” You exclaim. “You don’t have a bed?” You then look to Colin for assistance, as if waiting for him to disagree. Colin makes a gesture similar to a shrug. Bigby tries to explain that he simply never needed one, but he fears it’s too late—your eyes are already gleaming with resolve. “Then you’re coming downstairs with me.” You assert, taking a few steps towards the front door before turning back around. “It was nice talking to you, Colin.” You say with a small smile.

“See you,” Colin murmurs, sending Bigby an unreadable look when you turn your back. Bigby just shrugs and follows after you, knowing there’s no point in arguing. This is not a debate he would win and, frankly, he’s too tired to refuse the offer of a soft mattress. The wolf closes his apartment door and heads down the hallway after you. Now that his adrenaline has died down, he feels his exhaustion setting in. When the two of you make it to the elevator, Bigby grasps at the railings and closes his eyes.

“Almost there,” you say, breaking him from his thoughts. Somehow, the elevator is on the first floor already. The wolf takes a deep breath and manages to summon enough energy to make it to your door. You unlock it quickly and push it open. From there, you guide him to your bed. Bigby doesn’t have the awareness to think anything of sleeping in your bed at the present moment, but he’s sure it’ll dominate his thoughts in the morning.

He reclines in your bed and is abruptly thrown back into the past, into a different bed in a cabin in the woods and a different identity—

“Rest,” you remark, breaking him out of his thoughts. You step back and, for a fraction of a moment, Bigby thinks you’re leaving. But you simply walk around to the other side of the bed and turn on the small deskside lamp, grabbing a book from the nightstand. “I’ll be here.”

The knowledge that you’re watching over him makes him feel… cared for; valued; appreciated; and seen for who he truly is. Bigby takes a shuddering breath, pretending his heart isn’t racing out of his chest. He feels incredibly vulnerable. His throat is burning with unshed tears. A small part of him still fundamentally distrusts your kindness, no matter how much of it you have shown him. That small part of him beckons him back to the shadows, proclaiming that no one will ever love him, that he isn’t worth loving. As if sensing his spiraling thoughts, you reach out and clasp his hand. “It’s alright.” You speak with such certainty that Bigby finds himself instantaneously relaxing, his shoulders loosening as he practically sinks into the mattress. For the first time, he wholeheartedly believes that maybe, just maybe, everything will actually be alright.

[obligatory bigby wolf playlist]

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defectivevillain · 1 month

Text

vigilant veneration

pairing: Padmé Amidala/Reader (can be platonic or romantic)

summary: After an assassination attempt on Senator Padmé Amidala, you're tasked with watching over her. One late night, you accidentally fall asleep outside her door—and you wake to find her staring down at you.

reader's pronouns are unspecified; race and gender are ambiguous; no physical descriptors are used.

word count: 1k | ao3 version

warnings: mentions of fatigue/exhaustion and a canonical assassination attempt

At first, you think you’re imagining someone calling your name. Then, there’s a light shove to your shoulder and you’re roused from sleep. You blink blearily, opening your eyes to find Padmé looking down at you. It begins to come back to you in that moment: you had watched over Padmé the previous night; you wanted a brief moment’s respite and had moved to sit on the ground; now, you’re still on the ground, but there’s sunlight peeking through the sheer curtains down the hall. You immediately push yourself to your feet—despite Padmé’s hand on your shoulder, reassuring you that you haven’t made a misstep—and regard her with a somewhat terrified expression.

You were assigned to watch over Padmé Amidala, the former Queen of Naboo and newly-declared Senator, after an assassination attempt very nearly took her life. You’ve been a Padawan for a few years now, and you hoped that, with the successful completion of this task, you’d be even closer to becoming a true Jedi. Moreover, selfishly speaking, you wanted to get to know Padmé better. You had seen her in passing and spoken to her a few times with Obi-Wan, but you never got the chance to truly interact with her. You’ve quickly grown to care for her—in a manner that far surpasses the professional boundaries mandated by your assignment and your status as a Jedi-in-training.

Now, as you look up at the Senator—who is staring at you with a mix of perplexity and something close to concern—you realize you’ve made a terrible mistake. “Your Highness, please forgive me-” You’re quick to stammer, beginning to grow quite nervous under her watchful gaze. Despite the fact that Amidala gave up her throne after her second term, it only feels right to address her as the Queen.

“It’s alright,” she responds, eloquent as always. You’re too frazzled and embarrassed to register that she’s not angry with you, so you continue speaking.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep- It was only for a few moments, I promise.” You try to justify. Admittedly, your heart is racing out of your chest as you’re faced with Padmé’s full attention. Yet, you can’t quite dwell on that in the face of the harrowing realization that you left the Senator entirely unguarded in her room. An assassin could’ve snuck into her room, broken the window, and killed her with a swift shot from a blaster. The thought sickens you.

“It’s alright,” Padmé repeats thoroughly, breaking you away from your panicked thoughts. She is calm and composed, which only makes you feel worse. Somehow, she is not acknowledging the severity of your blunder. “You can’t be expected to stay awake all night to watch over me.”

“But that’s my job,” you feel the need to remind her. Why isn’t she furious with you? She should be—her anger would be completely justified. “That’s what I’m here for, and I failed.” You realize aloud.

“You didn’t fail,” Padmé argues, her eyebrows furrowed. Her lips are pressed in a thin line now.

“I did,” you insist. “What if something had happened to you? I’d never forgive myself-” Your voice cracks slightly at the end of that statement and you hope she doesn’t notice. The prospect of being complicit in her assassination is… unacceptable.

“That’s quite enough,” Padmé interjects, before you can spiral any longer. The commanding tone in her voice makes you promptly shut your mouth. She extends a hand towards you, as if to place a hand on your shoulder, before evidently abandoning the gesture. “Dwelling on the past is a pointless endeavor. Besides, I can protect myself.” She raises an eyebrow after that, as if daring you to argue.

“I didn’t mean to imply otherwise,” you’re quick to say, shaking your head in disbelief at your own foolishness. You’re just tripping over your own words at this point, and with each statement, you’re incriminating yourself even more. You take a deep breath and pinch the bridge of your nose. Admittedly, you didn’t get nearly enough rest—but you’d never burden Padmé with the details. Besides, this is what you signed up for. So what if you haven’t slept in three days? The Queen’s safety is far more important.

“Enough of this,” Padmé says, resolve written in her posture. There’s concern glittering in her eyes, but you dismiss it as a figment of your imagination. Surely Padmé isn’t genuinely worried for you. She simply wants her bodyguard—that’s really all you are, at this point—to be well enough to protect her. “You look positively exhausted.” She adds. The Senator is right. You caught a glimpse of yourself in the bathroom mirror the prior night and nearly recoiled at your reflection, which sported extremely dark under-eye circles. You can’t imagine those went away overnight. “You need to rest.” Padmé maintains.

“No, it’s fine-” You try to say, only for her to cut you off.

“As your Queen, I’m ordering you to rest.” You blink at her for a few moments, and it takes several moments for you to convince yourself that you heard her correctly. At your surprised expression, she softens. “Come on.” Padmé motions for you to follow after her. After a moment’s contemplation, you do so. She’s a member of the Galactic Senate and the former Queen of Naboo, after all. You’re a mere Padawan. Who are you to refuse?

When the two of you make it to your bedroom, you move to sit on your bed. You expect Padmé to leave you with a farewell, but after a few moments, you’re forced to watch in thinly-veiled confusion as she pulls up a chair and sits down. Under her attentive gaze, you have no choice but to get under the covers and lie back against your pillow. “Sleep,” she says, not unkindly. “I’ll watch over you.”

That’s not necessary, you want to say. You don’t trust yourself to speak, though. Besides, you’re already struggling to keep your eyes open. You recline on the bed and stare up at the ceiling, quickly losing the fight to your exhaustion. The last sensation you register before falling asleep is a hand grasping yours with delicate care.

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defectivevillain · 1 month

Text

this winding labyrinth, ch5

chapter five: surrender

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

summary:

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

check out my other works, sorted by fandom.

#defectivevillain #hannibal #hannibal nbc #Hannibal lecter #hannibal x reader #Hannibal Lecter x reader #x reader #x gn reader #x male reader #male reader #gn reader #transmasc reader #hannibal x male reader #hannibal x gn reader #Hannibal Lecter x male reader #Hannibal Lecter x gn reader #sorry gotta get em all #gotta catch em alllll

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defectivevillain · 1 month

Text

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.

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#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

319 notes · View notes

defectivevillain · 2 months

Text

saw

Dr. Lawrence Gordon

shared solitude

0 notes

defectivevillain · 2 months

Text

shared solitude

pairing: Lawrence Gordon/Reader

summary: “How are you feeling?” Lawrence asks, placing a hand on your shoulder. “Fine, doc,” you say, if only to make Lawrence’s eyebrow tick in annoyance. You know he hates it when you call him that, but sometimes you just can’t help it. Ironically, it’s in moments like these that you realize just how good of a doctor Lawrence is—how patient and understanding he is, even in the wake of your stubbornness.

Lawrence helps you recover from top surgery.

The reader’s pronouns are unspecified and race/gender is kept ambiguous.

This one’s for my nb, transmasc and otherwise gender-nonconforming friends <3. If you want top surgery and haven’t gotten it yet, then I’m manifesting it for you. And if you don’t want it, then that’s fine too—you can just kick back and enjoy Lawrence Gordon being an amazing partner!

ao3 version | word count: 1.6k

warnings: mentions of surgery, medications, pain, nausea (typical medical stuff); some brief self-deprecating thoughts.

When you get up from the couch after several hours, you’re unsurprised to find that the effort is awkward and slightly painful. You just had top surgery a few days ago, and the binder you have to wear over your bandages is horribly uncomfortable. You know that your patience will pay off soon—and that you’ll be taking the binder off within a week. Still, it makes regular activity rather difficult.

You just need to get some more water and stretch your legs. Sighing, you take a few slow steps forward until you’re near the water dispenser in the kitchen. The water seems to drip into your bottle with infinite slowness, and you eventually have to lean forward and brace yourself against the wall with a hand.

“I told you not to get up without me.”

Your heart rate spikes at the sudden noise, but you immediately recognize the voice. Lawrence is back from work, it seems. You had no idea it had gotten so late in the day already. Not that you’re complaining. “Lawrence, you scared me,” you say breathlessly. Lawrence just raises his eyebrows at you, evidently questioning why you’re standing up. “I’m fine. I just needed to get some water and move around a bit.”

The skepticism fades from the doctor’s expression, replaced instead with concern. “Just be careful,” Lawrence chastises. He places his jacket on the coat hanger near the door, before taking off his shoes and walking over to you. You know you must look horrible right now, but Lawrence doesn’t seem to care. He leans in and places a kiss on your forehead, before his gaze falls to your sides. “Did you check your drains?”

“Yeah, about an hour ago,” you respond, allowing yourself to lean into him for a moment. You’re infinitely grateful that you have Lawrence to guide you along in this recovery process. You know you’re capable of caring for yourself on your own, but it’s nice to know that someone else cares about you, too.

“How are you feeling?” Lawrence asks, placing a hand on your shoulder. His grip is firm and reassuring. You take a deep breath. Despite your overwhelming appreciation for Lawrence’s assistance, he can get a little… overbearing at times. You know it’s all born out of compassion and concern, but it’s hard not to feel patronized sometimes.

“Fine, doc,” you say, if only to make Lawrence’s eyebrow tick in annoyance. You know he hates it when you call him that, but sometimes you just can’t help it. Ironically, it’s in moments like these that you realize just how good of a doctor Lawrence is—how patient and understanding he is, even in the wake of your stubbornness. A hint of a smile falls on your lips.

“Have you taken your meds?” He hums, his thumb running along your skin as his hand cradles your jaw. You meet his gaze and nearly choke on your next breath as you see the sheer adoration in his glimmering blue eyes.

“I switched to Ibuprofen this morning,” you murmur, leaning into him for another moment before slowly breaking away. You haven’t been able to shower in the past few days, and despite the efforts you’ve taken to maintain your hygiene in other ways, you still feel a little self-conscious. Lawrence has maintained several times that it’s nothing to be embarrassed about.

“Okay, good,” Lawrence says, breaking you out of your thoughts. His hand slips from your face and he tugs his sleeve up to glance at his watch. “You can take Tylenol after you eat something.” His gaze turns expectant at that latter statement.

“I’m not hungry,” you say through gritted teeth. Truthfully, you are hungry, but nothing sounds good. The thought of food right now turns your stomach. Lawrence has a knowing expression on his face as he regards you, as if he’s able to read your unspoken thoughts. He takes a few steps towards your pantry and looks around.

“How about some rice?” Lawrence asks, turning around to look at you questioningly. “It’s easy on the stomach.”

He’s right. Besides, you know that you should eat something. You’ve only really been snacking for most of the day, eating crackers and other small things when your stomach allowed for it. “Sure.” Lawrence smiles and tells you to settle on the couch. You hear him rustling around in the kitchen, evidently getting whatever cooking utensils he needs. You hope that he’s making something for himself, too.

Some time later, Lawrence is heading back to the living room with a bowl of steaming white rice in hand. You slowly push yourself up, ignoring the tight feeling the movement provokes in your chest. After noticing that Lawrence is also holding something for himself, you swing your legs around to leave him room to sit next to you. He settles next to you and remains silent for a moment. You realize that he’s watching you eat.

“I don’t need help eating, Lawrence,” you huff fondly. To your surprise, he flushes pink at that and moves away. You quickly backpedal, wanting to make sure that he knows you’re just joking. “Hey, no, I didn’t mean it like that… I really appreciate all your help. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’d be just fine,” Lawrence smiles down at his plate, before taking another bite of his own meal. You don’t know what to say to that, so you settle for taking periodic bites of your food. Lawrence seems content to share the silence, as he picks at his food. Once you’re done eating as much as you can, he presses a pill into your hand and you down it with water.

Lawrence finishes with his own meal moments later and reaches for your plate. “Hey, let me do something,” you remark, holding your plate in a tight grip. “I’ll do the dishes.” You try to push yourself up, but Lawrence places a hand on your shoulder and pushes you back onto the couch.

“Absolutely not,” Lawrence argues. You glare at him and he takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sweetheart, you need to take it easy.” He implores you, before taking your plate and stacking it on top of his. “I’m doing the dishes.” He proceeds to walk into the kitchen. You hear the water running and the occasional clanging sound of dishes. Moments later, Lawrence is back and settled into the couch next to you.

You keep sneaking him sidelong glances, hoping he doesn’t notice. He looks tired—dark circles under his eyes. He’s been busy at work recently, from what he’s told you. Guilt stews in your chest at the thought that his work as a caretaker doesn’t end when he leaves work. “I’m sorry,” you murmur quietly.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Lawrence replies, reaching out to place a hand on your knee. You disagree. You’ve been doing nothing the past few days, save for leeching off of Lawrence and practically demanding his constant attention.

“I just feel so useless-” You admit, your throat burning with unshed tears. You hate being so sedentary, feeling so restless and frustrated.

“You are not useless,” Lawrence interjects sincerely. There is a stern expression on his face as he looks at you. “Absolutely not. And besides, we’ve talked about this. I told you that I would care for you as you recovered—that I wanted to.” He maintains, turning to the side to look at you head-on.

“You’ve been there for me for so long,” Lawrence continues. “Now, let me return the favor. Okay?” He leans into you and presses a kiss to your lips. You feel a smile growing on your face. Somehow, he always knows how to cheer you up.

“Okay,” you whisper, your eyelids burning and feeling heavier. It seems your exhaustion is catching up to you. You lean back into the cushion behind you. Just before you feel your mind begin to calm down, Lawrence interjects.

“Don’t go to sleep yet,” he remarks. You blink dazedly, opening your eyes to find him staring at you expectantly. “You can’t sleep out here—it would be bad for your back.” You groan at the thought of having to move again, triggering more pain. Lawrence extends a hand and you take it, allowing him to guide you into a standing position. Thankfully, it is a rather short walk from the living room to your bedroom, and Lawrence provides the support you need to make it to the bed. You slowly sit down on the bed, before trying to grab the covers. He pushes your hand away and pulls the sheets over you.

“Do you need anything else?” Lawrence asks once you’re settled, eyebrows furrowed in concern. His gaze flits to your nightstand and wanders about the room, before settling on you once more.

“I don’t think so,” you respond with a slight shake of your head. You reach out and clasp his hand. “Thank you, Lawrence.”

“Any time.” He responds.

Once you heal from surgery, you take over dishwashing duty for a straight month—until Lawrence has to practically drag you away from the dishwasher and reassure you that you’re doing your part, that you don’t owe him anything.

For now, though, you’re content to let your head fall back into the pillow behind you. Lawrence lingers in the doorway, a soft smile on his face that you rarely get to see.

“I love you,” Lawrence murmurs. You smile, wondering—not for the first time—how you got so lucky.

“I love you too,” you respond without hesitation. “Good night, Lawrence.” He flicks the light off and closes the door, but the warmth of his gestures settles into the air around you and coaxes you into a gentle slumber.

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defectivevillain · 2 months

Text

this winding labyrinth, ch4

chapter 4: regurgitation

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

summary:

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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defectivevillain · 2 months

Text

darling i do

pairing: Percival Graves/Reader

The reader experiences gender dysphoria and is implied to be transmasculine/nonbinary/gnc. no pronouns are used and race is ambiguous.

summary: You’re having a bad day, but you don’t want to burden Percival with the details. Unfortunately for you, he is rather perceptive.

word count: 1.4k | ao3 version

This is extremely self indulgent, but I hope my fellow transmasc/nb/gnc folks find solace in this piece. :)

also i'm using this gif again and no one can stop me.

warnings: gender dysphoria

You hear the exact moment Percival gets home—not because he’s loud, but because you’re sitting in the living room waiting for him. You greet him with a soft smile, pretending the gesture doesn’t take an unreasonable amount of effort. “Hi, Percival,” you remark.

“Hello,” he remarks, the tension seeping from his shoulders as he steps inside and closes the door behind him. Percival takes his bag off and hangs it on the hook near the entrance, before doing the same with his coat. “How was your day?” He asks.

“Alright,” you remark, pushing past all the self-deprecating thoughts running through your mind. You don’t want to burden Percival with the details. “How about you?”

“It was good,” Percival replies, bending down to remove his shoes. “The department’s starting to get pretty busy—sorry I’ve been home late these past few days.” His lips are pressed in a thin line and there’s an apologetic look on his face.

“Don’t apologize, it’s not your fault,” you’re quick to reassure him. Percival is the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, after all. His work is important. “And don’t forget—we have leftovers from takeout the other night.”

“Oh, right,” he nods, taking a few steps forward. “Thank you.” He leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead before walking to the fridge. You watch him for a moment, before settling back on the couch. The television is on, but you find it hard to focus. A maelstrom of apprehension, dejection, and dysphoria is swirling around you.

You don’t want to acknowledge your feelings. Unfortunately for you, Percival is rather perceptive. He’s an Auror, after all. Not to mention, the man has high emotional intelligence. You’re not sure why you even bother trying to hide from him in the first place.

For an immeasurable amount of time, you let the light from the television wash over you. At some point, you hear Percival get up from the table and wash his dishes. Before you can attempt to slip away, he’s standing before you. “Something wrong, love?” Percival asks, moving to sit next to you on the couch. His attentive gaze nearly makes you crumble right then and there. “You’ve been awfully quiet.”

“It’s nothing,” you murmur, looking down at your clasped hands. You bite the inside of your cheek and keep your thoughts hidden. Somehow, your feelings must show on your face regardless, because Percival frowns.

The man places a hand on yours, prompting you to look over at him. “If it’s making you feel like this…” he breaks off, concern written all over his face, “It has to be something.” You still can’t find the words. Your tongue feels glued to the roof of your mouth; you can’t even begin to describe the confusing torrent of emotions rushing through you right now.

Percival is stubborn, though. “What is it?” He implores.

You inhale slowly, feeling as if a giant spotlight is searing through your skin. Sentiments of inadequacy and wrongness refuse to leave, clinging to your skin uncomfortably. You don’t feel right today. “I don’t like my hair,” you eventually answer. Indeed, you’d spent the better part of the walk home from work looking at the people passing you, wondering why you couldn’t look like them.

“Why?” Percival asks. He doesn’t look disbelieving or skeptical—he simply wants to understand.

“I don’t know,” you choke out. In reality, you do know. You love your hair, you really do, but for the past few days, you’ve been perceived as the opposite gender more times than you can count. While you’ve already taken steps to socially transition, it doesn’t feel like enough. Your hair seems like the easiest thing to change, and your dysphoria has narrowed in on it as the source of the problem. If your hair were shorter, you’d look better. If your hair were shorter, you wouldn’t be mistaken as someone you’re not.

“You sure?” Percival continues. His hand remains on yours, providing a reassuring pressure. His gaze hasn’t wavered since he first sat down next to you. The recognition makes your eyes begin to burn. You stare at him, before silently leaning forward and embracing him. Percival is quick to reciprocate, tugging you closer until your head is nearly buried in his shoulder.

“I’m not sure,” you whisper against his shoulder. It comes out muffled, but Percival seems to understand regardless (as he always does).

“What can I do to help?” He questions. That is just one of the many reasons why you love Percival. Rather than scrutinizing your feelings or trying too hard to understand your experiences, he focuses on assisting you above all. He doesn’t treat you like a puzzle that needs to be solved, doesn’t make you feel irrational or unreasonable for having bad days.

“My hair,” you choke out. “Can you help me cut it?”

Percival blinks. “Of course,” he responds without hesitation. He places a hand on your shoulder briefly. “Let’s move to the bathroom.” Percival says, eyes flitting to the door down the hall. You get up from your seat and walk over there, knowing he’ll follow you.

Moments later, you find yourself sitting on the nearby chair with Percival standing over you. His gaze wanders your face before settling on your hair. “What length are you thinking?” He asks. You’re briefly overwhelmed by appreciation, at the way he immediately moved to help you in whatever way he knew how. You forget that he’s waiting for an answer until he repeats himself.

“Short,” you say, avoiding his eyes.

“Very helpful,” Percival smiles mirthfully. You huff past the tightness in your chest. “How short?”

“I don’t know,” you respond helplessly. “Just… really short. Almost a buzzcut.”

The air is quiet for a few seconds. “Are you sure?” Percival asks. You know he’s not questioning your decision; rather, he’s clarifying that you want him to be the one to do it.

“Yeah,” you say, your throat feeling tight. There’s no one I trust more than you, you think.

“Alright,” he says. “Ready?” Percival stills and holds his wand up towards you. You nod silently and he takes a deep breath. “Crinus Muto.” You close your eyes and ignore the strange chilling sensation that runs up your spine, knowing it to be a mere side effect of the spell. It should only take a few seconds, but you keep your eyes closed for a few moments after. For some reason, you’re scared to look. Fear strikes through you as you imagine how horrible you could look. What if you don’t have the right face shape? What if this haircut just makes everything worse? What if-?

“You can look now,” Percival says gently.

You stand up and slowly open your eyes. For a moment, the light assaults your eyes and you’re squinting. Your vision clears soon enough, leaving you to take in your new haircut. “I-” You break off, feeling your lips pulling at the edges as you stare at yourself in the mirror, “I love it.” You’re smiling now. You bring a hand up to your hair and continue looking in the mirror. Your reflection looks… like you. You look more comfortable, more confident. You can’t hide the grin on your face. For a minute or two, you simply stare at your reflection in awe. As you’re looking in the mirror, you accidentally make eye contact with Percival, who is looking at you with an unreadable expression. “What?” You ask self consciously.

He blinks for a moment, as if waking from a trance. A smile grows on his face. “You look wonderful,” Percival admits, reaching out to run a thumb along your temple and across your new short hair. You don’t say anything, but your skepticism must show on your face, because Percival is quick to continue.

“I’m serious,” he maintains. Percival brings his hands to your face again, turning your head to the side to get a better look at your new haircut. He brings you back with a delicate hand on your jaw and you feel flames race across your skin as you see the expression on his face. Percival looks absolutely lovestruck. Smitten. Surely that isn’t for you—surely that look isn’t because of you. “You look… incredibly handsome.” He confesses. At first, you suspect that he just said that to make you feel better. But the way he’s looking at you—the way he’s holding you—convinces you that the compliment is entirely genuine.

“...Thanks,” you remark hesitantly. And you’re sure Percival knows that you’re thanking him for more than just the haircut. You’re thanking him for understanding you, in a way few others have even bothered to. You’re thanking him for his endless compassion, his determination, and his unwavering faith in you.

Percival smiles, pressing a kiss to your lips. “Any time, love.” He promises. You take comfort in the unshakeable knowledge that he truly means it.

Me: *includes pet names a total of two times in this story* Also me: this feels like too much.

grAHHHHHHHH where is Percival Graves. I need him like SpongeBob needs water.

anyway, thanks for reading! <3

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defectivevillain · 3 months

Text

scar-crossed lovers

pairing: Severus Snape/Reader (can be platonic or romantic)

summary: “This really isn’t necessary,” you feel the need to say, once you realize that Severus is going to apply the burn paste for you. “I’m perfectly capable-” You break off at the cynical expression on his face, which suggests exactly how incapable he thinks you are.

word count: 2.7k | ao3 version

this work is technically in a series, so feel free to read the other parts and then come back :3

warnings: first-degree burns

Potions was one of your least favorite subjects as a Hogwarts student. You weren’t necessarily bad at brewing, but you weren’t quite skilled at it either. The pressure to follow precise instructions coupled with the subsequent risk of injury that came with errors made it a hard class for you to enjoy. You didn’t have enough confidence in your abilities to proceed through Potions with conviction, and that showed through in your classwork. You often brewed the Potions correctly, but it took you twice as long as it took your classmates.

Thankfully, your Potions days are long behind you. You’re the Ancient Runes professor at Hogwarts and acting Head of Hufflepuff House—and neither of those roles require an extensive knowledge of Potions. You’re more than content to leave the art of Potions to Severus Snape, the current Potions Master and Head of Slytherin House. You’re secretly relieved that you left Potions back in your school years. You’d much rather continue practicing and researching the subject you’re skilled at—Ancient Runes—than meddle with Potions.

The universe seems dead-set on spiting you, however, because you soon find yourself in a rather uncomfortable position. Minerva is regarding you with an expectant gaze, evidently waiting for you to respond to her statement. You have to put a conscious effort towards remembering what she’s requested of you.

Severus will be away for the next few school days, in order to attend an international Potions conference. Since the Potions Master will be absent, the castle will need a substitute to stand in his place. You’re not exactly surprised that Minerva is asking you to fill in for Severus—you teach an elective course for upper-years, which means that you have less classes to teach than your colleagues. You have enough time in your schedule to fill in for Severus. The thought of returning to the dungeons for Potions isn’t quite savory, but you know you’ll manage. Besides, you’ll be the professor, not the student. You won’t actually have to brew anything; instead, you’ll be supervising the students’ creations.

“I can do it,” you tell Minerva. The Transfiguration professor thanks you and the tension seems to leave her shoulders. For the rest of your meeting, the two of you review the lesson plans Severus left and discuss any potential obstacles. You leave feeling both nervous and excited.

To your surprise, however, your Potions classes proceed rather well. The first day flies by without incident and you find yourself feeling strangely validated. You had anticipated there to be a struggle with maintaining your authority, especially with the younger classes of students whom you haven’t gotten to know yet. However, everything went rather smoothly. There were a few hiccups here and there, but you managed to handle them well. Perhaps this won’t be so bad after all.

Of course, the moment you begin to relax, something goes wrong. In hindsight, perhaps you should’ve expected mishaps from the second year Slytherins and Gryffindors—the two Houses usually don’t get along well, and the students are fairly young. But, you don’t have a choice in the matter—you have to supervise them, since Severus is absent. Safe to say, within a few moments of starting class, you’re developing a headache.

The class is currently learning how to brew Strengthening Solution. You copy the recipe from the textbook onto the board with large handwriting and provide a few general tips, before allowing the students to pair up and begin brewing. By the end of the period, each pair should present a Strengthening Solution for grading.

Strengthening Solution is far from a difficult brew, but you still spot a few pairs having trouble. You eventually decide to pace around the classroom in circles, keeping your eyes peeled for raised hands or confused looks. Malfoy is doing well—unsurprising, considering that he’s apparently one of the top of the class. The same goes for Granger. Zabini and Nott seem to know what they’re doing. Weasley seems torn between attempting to slice his ingredients and cheating off of Granger. There aren’t any noticeable fights brewing amongst the students, which is a plus. Malfoy and Potter have a rather bitter rivalry, from what you’ve heard.

Someone is trying to get your attention, though. You break away from your thoughts and walk over to the student, who is raising their hand diligently. “What’s the next ingredient?” A boy you recognize to be Neville Longbottom asks. You peek down into his cauldron, frowning when you notice it’s the wrong color.

“What have you done so far?” You ask him. Longbottom recounts the steps he’s taken and you manage to find where he left off. “Salamander blood is next, Mr. Longbottom,” you answer him. Longbottom exchanges a worried look with Finnigan, his lab partner. Dread coils in your chest. The two of them look scared.

“Salamander?” Longbottom asks, his eyes wide.

“Yes,” you respond. The shocked look on Longbottom’s face does not inspire confidence. You grimace and take another sidelong glance at the cauldron, surprised to find that the color has since changed. Just what did Longbottom put in the concoction?

You don’t have time to find out, as the cauldron bubbles ominously. Within the blink of an eye, the cauldron is spitting boiling hot liquid everywhere. You quickly shove Longbottom to the side and turn to conjure a shield. Your arm is prickling and aching, but you ignore the sensation and focus on containing the potion’s unexpected eruption. Thankfully, you manage to prevent any harm to the other students—which is most important. A nullifying spell calms the bubbling potion back down, and you quickly send Longbottom to the infirmary before instructing the class to finish brewing and turn in what they have. Despite the mishaps with Longbottom’s brewing, the majority of the class seems to have finished the Strengthening Solution unimpeded. Once the students are dismissed, you turn your attention to the now-melted cauldron and try your best to repair it. After a few minutes of concentration, you manage to somewhat restore it. At the very least, it’s functional. Longbottom will just have to deal with it.

You finish cleaning the table up, before wiping the sweat from your brow and taking a deep breath. That was a close call—your heart is still racing. There’s no telling what would have happened if you hadn’t contained the potion in time. Thank Merlin for small mercies, you suppose.

It takes several moments for your adrenaline to fade away, and the feeling is then replaced with a strange prickling along your forearm. You frown and pull up your shirt sleeve, hissing as it rubs against your chafed and burnt skin. It seems not everyone escaped unscathed. Truthfully, though, you’re glad you’re the one injured—and not any of the students (aside from Longbottom, who is likely being chewed out by Madam Pomfrey right now).

You know a few minor healing spells, but they hardly do anything to get rid of the harsh burn that seems to tear its way up your arm. You don’t really want to go to the infirmary—you know Poppy would have no qualms about telling you exactly how reckless and foolish you were. You suppose you could raid Severus’s Potions stash… but you don’t have a death wish. Severus is very possessive of his Potions, and you know he’d flip once he returned and noticed that something was missing. You inhale slowly and take a moment to process everything that just happened.

Your brief reprieve doesn’t last very long, as a student enters the classroom and breaks you out of your thoughts. You cast a minor pain relief spell and quickly roll your shirt sleeve back down. Before long, you’re too busy greeting the next class of students to pay much attention to your injury.

Thankfully, your remaining lessons are uneventful. It isn’t until your final class is over and you start to walk to the dining hall that you remember the burn itching at your skin. The pain nullification spell has worn off and you cast another, idly hoping that it’ll somehow get rid of the burn entirely. You don’t really have the luxury to devote time to your wound—you need to finalize your lesson plans for the coming week and grade some essays that the fifth-years turned in. You spend dinner lost in thought, planning out how you’re going to spend the rest of your day.

It’s really a shame that your plan falls into obscurity the moment you leave the Great Hall. You can’t be more than a few steps down the hall before you feel a presence at your side. You chance a sidelong glance at your newfound companion, relaxing when you realize it’s Severus.

“Hey, Severus,” you greet him, unable to stop the small smile that works its way onto your face. You’re happy to see him. Severus nods and begins to walk at your side. You’re heading back to your office, and you suppose he is going to be returning to his office too. “Glad you’re back. How was the conference?”

The Potions professor huffs. “There was a veritable mix of bright minds and complete fools,” he remarks with a dark glare pointed ahead. You have to stifle your amusement at the gesture. Severus doesn’t seem keen to elaborate further on the sentiment.

“That sounds about right,” you hum, recalling what you’ve heard about the conference in passing. “Your classes did pretty well. Only one cauldron blew up.” Severus lets out a long-suffering sigh, evidently thinking about all the cauldrons that will blow up across the duration of the school year. You can’t help but smile at his exasperation. Admittedly, you share some of it too—especially since the incident yesterday.

“Thank you for watching over my classes,” Severus says, apropos of nothing. There’s no hint of anything other than sincerity in his voice. You raise an eyebrow at the realization. His lips quirk up ever so slightly and, Merlin, is that a smile? He surprises you even more by placing a hand on your forearm. Ordinarily, you’d appreciate the friendly gesture, but his grip falls right on your untreated burn and you have to wince. Immediately, his eyes are squinted in suspicion. You try to tug your arm back, but his grip is tight on your wrist—thankfully, away from the burn. The professor’s infamous scowl returns. “What did you do?”

You resolutely keep your mouth shut. Unfortunately, Severus isn’t the least bit discouraged. Instead, he grabs your sleeve and delicately rolls it up. The marred skin on your forearm is revealed and Severus shakes his head in irritated disbelief.

“To be fair, I didn’t do anything,” you feel the need to establish. Severus pinches the bridge of his nose. You decide to continue speaking, even though his expression is quickly turning from annoyed to fuming. “Remember the cauldron I mentioned? Yes, well… Mr. Longbottom had a bit of an accident.”

Severus’s grip on your wrist becomes bruising and you hiss. He removes his hand, but the indignant expression on his face doesn’t fade. His fists are clenched at his sides and his scowl is the angriest you’ve seen. It looks as if he’s moments away from stalking over to the Gryffindor Common Room and taking points from the Longbottom boy.

“Severus,” you chide him. You’ve been meaning to talk to him about his treatment of Neville Longbottom. The Gryffindor is absolutely terrified of the Potions professor. Now that you’re on the topic, you might as well mention it. “Actually-” The rest of the words disintegrate on your tongue, as you catch the murderous expression on the professor’s face. He glares at you and you fall silent. Now might not be the best time, you realize.

Severus starts to walk away. He doesn’t offer a single word of explanation, but you follow after him because it seems like the right thing to do. A few moments later, you find yourself standing in front of his Potions stores. Severus lets out a long suffering sigh and climbs the ladder to the top shelf with practiced ease, grabbing Burn-Healing Paste and another vial before shouldering past you in the doorway. You take a step back and watch him lock the space, before following him into his office. It takes you a few moments to realize why he hasn’t dismissed you yet.

“This really isn’t necessary,” you feel the need to say, once you realize that Severus is going to apply the paste for you. “I’m perfectly capable-” You break off at the cynical expression on his face, which suggests exactly how incapable he thinks you are. Severus silently takes a few steps forward, leaving you to hesitantly backpedal until you’re forced to lean back against his desk. He makes quick work of rolling up your sleeve; you’re not given even a word of warning before the paste is being deposited onto your arm. You manage to keep quiet, despite the sudden shock. The paste is weirdly cold, and it almost immediately soaks into your skin. You stare down at it in fascination.

“Thank you, Severus-” You move to get up, only for your colleague to push you back with a firm hand. You let your free hand fall to the desk behind you, feeling a sudden urge to brace yourself. Severus doesn’t seem to pay you any mind, as his gaze is honed in on your forearm. He procures the vial from earlier and picks up the pipette to place the amber liquid on your skin. At your questioning gaze, Severus explains.

“Anti-scarring solution.”

“Severus, I don’t care if it scars,” You try to say.

“Merlin forbid you mar your flawless skin,” Severus interjects, complete with a scoff and an intense eye-roll. The wording sounds a little familiar, but it takes you a moment to place it. Once you realize that he’s repeating something Lockhart said to you a few days ago— “You have such flawless skin!” —you can’t help but choke on a quiet laugh.

“He’s rather friendly, isn’t he?” You muse aloud. Severus visibly stiffens at that, for some reason. Tension suddenly settles in the air, heavy and palpable amidst the quiet of his office. You can’t help but feel as if you’ve just done something wrong—you’re just not sure what it is.

“More than friendly,” Severus states mildly. You want to ask him about the unreadable expression on his face (and the inexplicable glimmer in his eyes), but he places a healthy amount of salve on your arm and you flinch at the stinging sensation it creates. Lockhart had touched your forearm there, too. Whilst his touch incited disgust and discomfort within you, Severus’s touch makes your heart race.

“Okay, thank you-” You try to escape again, feeling a bit flustered by the intense gaze he has pointed at you. The Potions professor doesn’t respond verbally, instead leveling you with such a malicious glare that any more objections fall to dust in your mouth. Severus returns his attention to your forearm, a roll of bandages in one hand as the other hand gently extends your arm. A shiver rolls down your spine. Time drags on like a viscous sludge, and you’re a prisoner to its whims. All you can hear is Severus’s calm, measured breaths; all you see is the careful manner with which he handles you, as if you’re made of glass.

“Thank you, Severus.” You breathe once the bandages are secured around your forearm. You swear you feel his hands linger for the briefest of moments, but you put it down to your imagination. At a loss for words, you end up bidding him a good night and retreating to your own office. Even as you try to immerse yourself in grading your class’s essays, the weight of Severus’s touch and the pressure of his gaze refuses to leave your mind’s eye. You fall asleep that night with your arm prickling, both from the salve and from Severus’s attentive, careful grasp earlier.

The next day, you’re set free from your supervisory duties. While the few days you spent as Potions professor were enjoyable, you’re very relieved they’re over. You’d much rather devote attention to Ancient Runes—a subject you feel you’re more qualified to teach. It’s also nice to have your free periods back. You take the chance to study up on some recent scholarship and walk about the castle, taking in the fresh air that the spring brings.

Unbeknownst to you, during Potions class with the second-years, Gryffindor House loses a hundred points. When you hear the news at dinner, you can’t help but laugh. You then glance at Severus, unsurprised to find a vindictive smirk tugging at his lips.

thanks for reading! <3

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228 notes · View notes

defectivevillain · 3 months

Text

saltburn

Felix Catton

turning pages (for people who don't care)

2 notes · View notes

defectivevillain · 3 months

Text

turning pages (for people who don't care)

pairing: Felix Catton/Reader

summary: Felix Catton is well-liked by practically everyone he meets, from teachers to peers and strangers. He catches the gazes of anyone as he enters a space; he’s often the thrumming energy that determines exactly how a night will go. Felix’s name lives everywhere, from the pulsing rhythm of rowdy parties to the quiet whispers across the school courtyard. Anyone who’s anyone knows Felix Catton. As an unassuming student at Oxford with no particular desire for wealth, luxurious parties, or hesitant smiles from across a dimly-lit pub, you’re not sure how to feel about that. However, you soon find your quiet student life thrown into a whirlwind of activity when you have to tutor Felix.

The reader’s pronouns are unspecified, but they are written to wear masculine clothing. (I'm of the opinion that anyone can rock a dress shirt & slacks, but whatever). Otherwise, no physical descriptors are used; the reader's race and gender are ambiguous.

The title of this fic is from Drift Away, the Steven Universe song.

word count: ...7.3k. i don't want to talk about it. 💀

ao3 version

You enjoy being a tutor at Oxford. It doesn’t pay incredibly well, but the work itself is rewarding enough for you to forgive the meager wages. You genuinely look forward to your sessions, to seeing the bright gleam in a student’s eyes as they begin to understand the material in a way they hadn’t before. You muse on the thought as you walk into the library, heading for your usual table and arranging your materials. Your next session is in a few minutes, so you spend your spare time reviewing your notes from your previous class.

Someone pointedly clears their throat and you look up, only to find yourself staring at another student. He has messy brown hair, warm brown eyes, and an easy smile on his face. He looks self-assured, yet there’s a slight sense of apprehension veiled in the way he shoves his hands in his pockets. “Hello,” you decide to say.

“..Hello.” He responds casually.

There’s an awkward beat of silence. Feeling eyes on you, you glance to the side, only to find a few people staring at you from a few tables away. They must be his friends. You shake your head and pretend not to have noticed, instead turning your attention to your laptop. “You must be… Felix?” You ask.

“Yes,” Felix responds, amusement glimmering in his eyes as if he expects you to know exactly who he is.

“Great, have a seat,” you say, not bothering to pay him a second glance. You pull up the email you received from the tutoring center, which shows the coursework he’s bringing in. “You have… a philosophy essay?” Felix nods, taking a seat and going through his backpack. “Awesome. Can you tell me a little about the assignment?”

Within a few minutes, it’s clear that Felix is an extroverted person. Moreover, he seems to be rather popular—several people passing by clap him on the shoulder as they walk past him. Thankfully, the gestures aren’t super distracting. Still, you find yourself a little surprised at the sheer amount of friends this guy appears to have.

But that’s not important, you scold yourself. You revert your attention to his philosophy essay, which is off to a great start. Admittedly, he has a solid foundation—he just seems to need guidance working with transitioning between ideas. His citations could use some work, too, but you’re quick to refer him to the proper resources. Overall, though, his essay is well-crafted. You tell him as much, and his eyes momentarily widen before he averts his gaze, suddenly appearing flustered.

You still can’t shake the feeling that you’re being watched, though. It’s not Felix’s friends this time, either. You don’t realize how preoccupied you are with the feeling until Felix draws attention to it.

“Do you know him?” He asks, just as you’re in the middle of reading a sentence. You pause and look up, following Felix’s gaze to somewhere in the distance. Sure enough, Michael is lurking in the corner of two bookshelves, his eyes nearly burning into you.

“Yeah, that’s Michael,” At Felix’s inquiring look, you continue. “I’ve seen him around. Talked to him once or twice.” You admit. We’re not really friends gets caught in your throat. Admittedly, Michael creeps you out a little, but you’d never say that out loud.

Felix raises an eyebrow, twirls his pencil around his finger. He seems to be in his element now, as he sprawls in his chair with all the ease and confidence of someone who has never needed to make an effort for appearances. “He seems to think you’re friends,” Felix remarks lightly.

“He seems to think a lot of things,” you respond before you can stop yourself. Felix chuckles. “Back to your paper.” You say, returning your attention to your peer’s work.

The reminder of the tutoring session is rather uneventful. Felix is skilled at writing, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s struggling simply because he isn’t doing the work. You suppose you have no way of knowing for sure. He’s made small comments here and there about his writing and why he’s here today—apparently his parents issued him an ultimatum and pretty much forced him to show up for tutoring. The session goes rather well, though—even despite the fact that he seemed rather uninterested at the beginning.

“Alright,” you sigh once your time is up, placing a hand over the top of your laptop and shutting it ever so slightly. “Any last questions before we wrap up?” You ask him. Felix blinks for a moment.

“I don’t think so,” he responds with a shake of his head. He begins to pack up his things, before looking at you once more. There’s a newfound conviction in his frame now. Felix slings his bag over his shoulder, pausing for a moment. “You were super helpful.” He admits, looking away as if the admission is difficult to make.

“Good!” You say relievedly. You’re always thrilled to hear that your peers feel as if they’ve gotten something from the tutoring. Your own beliefs can only go so far, after all. Just because you perceive a session to be helpful doesn’t mean it’s helpful to the other student. You shake your head to clear your thoughts. “Glad to hear it. Enjoy your day, and best of luck with your classes.”

Felix returns the sentiment, sending you one last unreadable look before walking over to the group that you had assumed to be his friends. They greet him with enthusiasm, evidently asking him questions about the time he spent working with you. Whatever he responds with must be intriguing, because the group’s gazes pivot back to you once more. You quickly focus on packing your bag, resolutely ignoring the attentive eyes burning into your back as you leave the library.

Felix slips from your mind rather easily after that day, especially when your course load increases and your work schedule grows a bit more intense. You soon find yourself in a rather stringent routine, in which you go to classes, tutor, go to more classes, eat meals in between, and go to sleep. It’s not ideal, but you enjoy tutoring and your schoolwork enough to push through it.

You’re walking to one of your classes when you hear someone call your name. At first, you’re convinced you imagined the remark. It isn’t until there’s suddenly an arm slung around your shoulder that you realize you likely heard correctly. The unexpected physical contact prompts you to look to the side, only to find Felix staring at you with a sheepish smile.

“Hey, there you are,” he remarks. “I’ve been looking for you.” You reflexively stiffen at the thought, but the gesture goes unnoticed. Felix’s grip is relentless, and you soon find yourself being pushed towards the courtyard off the stone path and near a small group of people. These must be Felix’s friends from before.

“Mates, this is the tutor who saved my ass last week,” Felix tells his friends, his arm still around your shoulder. You resist the compelling urge to shove him away. “Say hello.” He says to his friends, before turning to you again. “I owe you a drink sometime.”

“I’m not much of a drinker,” you say with a shake of your head. You don’t have much time for that with your current schedule. A hangover would be nothing but an inconvenience considering how early you’ve had to wake up the past few days. “But thanks anyway.”

“Ciggie?” He offers, his arm finally falling from your shoulders to pull a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. You’re suddenly hit with a strange shiver, a phantom sensation of the weight that rested there only a moment prior. You don’t realize that you haven’t answered the question until a few moments later.

“No thanks,” you remember to respond, ignoring his friends’ gazes burning into your skin again. Do they have nothing better to do than tear you apart with their eyes? “Good to see you.” You’re quick to try to end the conversation, but Felix is quicker.

“Hey, are you free tonight?” He asks. Somehow, he seems immune to his friends’ stares, as they’re all whispering conspiratorially amongst themselves. You resolutely ignore them and instead contemplate his question.

“Um.. no,” you say, after taking a moment to recall your schedule. You need to complete some coursework. “Why? Do you have an assignment?” You frown, trying to think back to the classes he said he’s taking.

“No,” Felix responds with a shake of his head. He gestures to the group. “We were going out to the pub.”

“I have an essay to write,” you remark, trying to sound disappointed. Maybe a small part of you is genuinely saddened at the conflict of plans, but you’re mostly just relieved to have an excuse not to go. You glance over at the clock in the courtyard, heart beginning to race when you notice your next class starts in two minutes. “I have to go to class. See you.” You turn on your heel and walk away, just barely hearing Felix’s goodbye over the nearby conversations.

“Your tutor’s kind of dodgy, eh, mate?” Farleigh says.

“No, not at all,” Felix responds with a shake of his head. The expression on his face is thoughtful, and his eyes are fixed on your turned back.

“If you say so,” Farleigh shrugs, taking another drag.

You hadn’t realized Felix was so popular. Now that you’ve met him, you hear whispers of him all around the school. Everyone seems to have an opinion on him one way or another. You’ve only conversed with him the few times you’ve seen him in tutoring sessions and around campus, but he seems nice enough.

Classes fly by, to your satisfaction. Your last class of the day ends a bit after the regular dinner hour, but you manage to sneak into the dining hall and snag some food before the space closes. After that, you’re content to return to your room. It’s been a long day and you could use some time to yourself to just relax and breathe.

Unfortunately, your suffering doesn’t end when you reach your residence hall. Instead, the moment you enter, you nearly crash into a woman waiting in front of a door. You manage to sidestep her and head up the stairs leading to the next floor.

“Hey, have you seen Felix?” Her voice echoes in the stairway. You freeze and turn to look down at the woman standing on the landing. She has bright red hair and glittering makeup coating her eyes. You feel your brows climb up your forehead as you realize that the door she’s standing in front of must lead to Felix’s room. You didn’t realize he lived in this building too.

“They’re all at the pub,” you answer after a few moments, recalling your conversation earlier. “At least, that’s what he said when I spoke to him earlier.”

She doesn’t seem satisfied with your answer, as she takes a deep breath. “Do you have alcohol?” She then asks.

“No,” you answer honestly. Felix’s friend stares at you for a moment, before huffing and walking away. You can’t find the energy to dissect that conversation, so you instead focus on unlocking the door to your room. You spend the rest of the night purposefully suppressing any thoughts of Felix and his friends.

When you wake the next morning, you feel somewhat rejuvenated and well-rested. Your essay is more than halfway done and you still have a few days before the due date. The sun is out and shining, casting a hazy glow over the courtyard that your room looks out on. You take a deep breath, before changing and brushing your teeth. You head to the dining hall for a small breakfast, before moving to the library for your first tutoring session of the day.

You’re not sure how much time you spend waiting for your peer to show, but you reckon it can’t be that long. It only feels like ten minutes pass before there’s a shadow passing over your vision, indicating that someone is standing over your table. You look up, unable to contain your surprise when you find Felix with a bag slung over his shoulder and a smile on his face.

“Hi,” you remark.

“Hey,” he responds, placing his bag on the ground and sitting down. You take the gifted opportunity to review the information given to you for the tutoring session. It appears Felix has another philosophy essay he wants you to look at. That shouldn’t be too bad. You give him a moment to get his things out, before diving right into his writing.

You’re happy to realize that he has used some of your tips from your first session. You already notice that the flow of his writing has improved, and his use of transition words at the beginning of each paragraph has aided in that regard. He has a few grammar errors—nothing major—and a few small citation mistakes. “Instead of listing all the authors, you can just say ‘Marks et al.’ here,” you point out, gesturing to the sentence that you’re looking at on the screen. Felix nods silently and adjusts the text.

“I heard you spoke with Annabel the other day,” he remarks, apropos of nothing. You’re abruptly thrown off track as your attention turns from the paper to Felix himself. He repeats his statement.

“Really?” You ask. Felix nods. “Sure, we spoke for a bit.” You return to reading his essay, confused by the sudden change in subject.

“What did you talk about?” He presses.

“She asked if I had seen you,” you answer, trying and failing to multitask. You eventually give up on reading for the time being and address his question. “I said no.”

“And?” Felix prompts.

“And that was it,” you finish. Felix still doesn’t seem convinced for some reason. You rack your brain and try to remember your interaction with the woman. It only happened a few days ago, but you’ve been so busy that it feels like a lifetime ago. “Oh, she asked me if I had alcohol. I said no. Then that was it.” You must imagine the momentary look of relief on his face.

“She called you prickly,” Felix continues, a mischievous smile on his face. You’re not sure what there is to smile about.

“I’m sure,” you respond disinterestedly. You’d like to go back to reading his paper, but he keeps diverting your attention and changing the subject. Before you can even attempt to try reading again, there’s suddenly a hand on the edge of your laptop, pushing your screen down ever so slightly. You look up to find Felix watching you rather closely.

“Who are you, exactly?” Felix asks. The library around you seems to fall silent with the remark. Your skin prickles. Why is there such an intent look on his face? Surely learning more about you doesn’t matter that much to him. Felix evidently notices you’re speechless and continues. “I don’t know anything about you. I’ve seen you around campus a few times, but that’s it.”

“I’m your tutor,” you respond, after taking a moment to collect your thoughts. Your heart is hammering away in your chest. “You don’t need to know anything about me.”

“What if I want to?”

“You wouldn’t want to,” you reply instinctively, warily. Alarm bells are ringing in your head. You can’t quite imagine a scenario in which Felix Catton, wealthy heir and avid partygoer, would ever benefit from knowing anything about you. Does he even notice how much attention he’s drawing, just sitting here with you right now? Even his friends are confused by his supposed interest in you. “I’m nothing special.” You try to look at his essay once more.

“That’s not true,” Felix says insistently, getting to his feet and placing his hand on your laptop once more. He’s ripping your eyes away from the screen and towards him. There’s an indignant expression on his face, as if he’s insulted by your claim. You blink up at him in confusion. If everyone in the library wasn’t staring already, then they certainly are now. Felix seems to regain his composure, as he shakes his head and moves to sit down once more.

There’s a palpable tension lingering in the air throughout the rest of your session. Felix seems anchored to his chair, as if he doesn’t want to leave. Eventually, you’re the one to leave first, as you have class in a few minutes. You can feel his eyes on your back as you walk away, imploring you to explain yourself further.

You’re not sure what there is to explain. Despite your prior promises not to pay attention to the rumors and whispers of your peers, you can’t help but acknowledge them. You have to wonder if some of it is true—if Felix doesn’t really do friends , if he is only interested in people for whatever they can offer him. Truthfully, Felix isn’t a person you would’ve interacted with. If not for tutoring, you’re sure you would’ve spent your entire time at Oxford knowing absolutely nothing about him and being unable to explain the strange stirring feeling of dislike in your chest. It’s too late now, though. It seems you can’t go back to the way things once were—not when Felix knows who you are now. You just have to hope that maybe, just maybe, he’ll realize that there’s nothing particularly compelling about you.

For a while, you don’t see Felix Catton and you are fooled into thinking he may have actually lost interest. You feel relieved at the thought. A small, traitorous part of you may long for the company he provides—the soft smiles he sends you, the glitter in his eyes as he speaks to you and only you. It was only for the best that you drifted apart, you think to yourself as you take an armchair in the library. The end of the semester is approaching, and you’ve taken every free moment to study and review course materials. Many other students seem to have the same idea as you, as the library has been a bit busier these past few weeks.

You barely get to start rereading your notes before a familiar voice is speaking to you. “My parents were impressed.” You look up to find Felix standing over you. It takes you several seconds to process his statement.

“With what?” You ask. Admittedly, you’re confused as to why he felt the need to approach you right now of all times. You’re sitting alone at a table in the library, and a few students are throwing you dirty looks as Felix continues to speak to you. You want nothing more than to sink into the ground and disappear forever.

“My philosophy grade, of course,” Felix remarks, taking the chair adjacent to you. You feel like everyone in the library is staring at you. When you look up, you find that a few students actually are—Felix’s friends at another table are among them. Felix seems immune to the attention he provokes. “They really want to meet you.” That surprises you. Why would his parents want to meet you? Because of your tutoring? All these questions must show on your face, because Felix elaborates. “They wanted to thank you.”

That’s surprising. “Are they visiting Oxford soon?” You ask curiously.

“No,” Felix answers. Your brows furrow and he shakes his head. “I meant this summer. You should join us at Saltburn.” He looks at you expectantly. You don’t have the faintest clue what Saltburn is, but you guess it must be a name for their residence. Judging from what you’ve heard of the Cattons, Saltburn is likely a very large, very extravagant mansion.

You blink at Felix once, twice. The expression on his face holds nothing but complete sincerity. You feel a laugh crawl out of your throat. It’s only until you see his face fall that you realize he’s not joking. “Oh, you’re serious,” you comprehend aloud. “Yeah, I could stop by.”

“I’d like you there,” he confesses. You feel your eyes widen as you stare at him in disbelief. “Is that so hard to believe?” Felix asks, looking at you skeptically.

Yes. Yes, it is. “...No.”

“You don’t sound convinced,” Felix says lightly. It almost looks as if he’s forcing a smile.

“You’re right,” you acquiesce, “I’m not convinced.”

Felix huffs in amusement, before pushing himself out of the chair and sending you a wave over his shoulder. You watch him leave, unable to shake the feeling that, somehow, you’re going to be roped into visiting his parents at their residence this summer.

Two months later, as you find yourself staring up at the splendor of Saltburn, you think you shouldn’t be as surprised as you are. Then again, a summons from James and Elspeth Catton isn’t exactly something you can ignore. You tug your suitcase across the rocky driveway, before arriving at the gargantuan wooden doors at the entrance. For a moment, there’s nothing but silence as you stand there. A few moments later, the doors swing open and you’re greeted by a man in a tuxedo—evidently a butler of some sort. He takes you into a beautifully ornate room with sunlight streaming in past ornate golden curtains. Thankfully, you’re not left to your own devices for long, as you hear footsteps echoing through the space.

Felix walks through the doorway, his expression brightening when he sees you. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says. The sincerity of his statement catches you off guard. Felix takes a step closer to break the distance between you and slings an arm around your shoulders, leading you past the butler and towards the edge of the room. You’re hit with whiplash—both because of the surprisingly heartfelt remark and the rapidity of Felix’s actions. Felix proceeds to take you on an informal tour of the residence, before leading you through his bedroom and the adjacent bathroom to your room.

“Hope you don’t mind sharing a bathroom,” he remarks offhandedly, leading you into the space that will be your bedroom. You assure him that you don’t mind and he grins, gesturing at your new room with a flourish. “Here’s your room. I’ll leave you to it.” He freezes in the doorway, pressing a hand to the doorframe and turning around for a brief moment. “We’ll be in the sitting room,” Felix adds, before turning back around and walking away.

You stare at the empty doorway for an immeasurable amount of time, before letting your gaze wander across the room. The room is quite gorgeous, with an elegant four poster bed and detailed paintings adorning the walls. The door leads to the bathroom, which then connects to Felix’s bedroom. You’re grateful that he placed you near him—you’re not sure you’d be comfortable inhabiting a room on the other side of the house, with no one around to guide you. You place your luggage off to the side—after telling the butler that you could carry it on your own—and take a deep breath. Truthfully, you’re not really sure why you’re here. You’re only going to humiliate yourself here. You don’t belong here. Why did you even entertain the thought?

You try to come up with an answer as you pace around the room, before finally deciding that there isn’t a clear-cut answer. You glance over at the clock in the corner, eyes widening when you realize that you spent at least twenty minutes just standing in the room and thinking. You take a few cautious steps into the bathroom, walk through Felix’s bedroom, and go down the hall Felix pointed out earlier. You quickly realize that you’re going in the wrong direction and backpedal, only to find a door left nearly closed, with a small crack letting the sound of conversation slip into the hall. This must be the sitting room.

You take a deep breath, steel your nerves, and knock on the door. Someone remarks that you can enter and you do so, pushing the door open more and stepping into the sitting room. The television is playing, but everyone’s eyes seem to be on you. Felix is sitting in the corner and his friend—Farleigh?—is sitting near the back of the room. You don’t get much time to take in your surroundings, as you’re quickly accosted by who you can only assume to be Felix’s father.

“Ah, you must be the tutor,” he remarks, getting up from his seat. “So wonderful to meet you. I’m James, and this is my wife, Elspeth.” You shake his proffered hand, before lingering awkwardly in the center of the room. Thankfully, Elspeth gets up to greet you, saving you from further embarrassment.

“I suppose you’re the one we owe for our son’s wonderful grades this term!” Elspeth remarks, bringing you in for a hug. Felix huffs and mutters something about not needing the help. You feel somewhat inclined to defend him, for reasons you can’t quite explain.

“Don’t give me too much credit,” you smile. “Felix is a great writer.”

Felix mutters something again, too quiet for you to hear. His mother turns to him and asks him to repeat himself. He averts his eyes and you swear you see him flush for a split second. “Not as great as you.”

“Well, aren’t you the flatterer,” Elspeth says, waving a casual hand at her son. Her gaze then turns back to you. “And you. So humble! I can see why Felix talks about you so much.” Felix freezes like a deer in headlights, before quickly leaving the room, murmuring about talkative mothers. You stare after him helplessly. There goes the only person that finds you even mildly tolerable.

“We are very thankful for your help, truly,” James says, crossing his leg over his knee. “Felix has always been a good student, but this term, he… he’s been different. We’re glad that he’s gotten his affairs back in order. With your assistance, of course! You must show me your writing sometime.”

“Thank you,” you respond sincerely. “I’d love to. And thank you so much for inviting me into your home.”

“So polite!” Elspeth remarks, shooting a dirty look at the other woman in the room. You quickly pretend you didn’t notice that. “Of course, darling.”

You’re left to sit awkwardly in the sitting room for a few moments. Felix’s parents ask you a few questions, but eventually their attention falls back to the program they’re watching. A shadow at the door draws your eye and you see Felix motioning for you to follow after him. You glance at his parents, who both motion for you to join their son. You get to your feet and walk out of the room, ignoring the sensation of a pressured gaze boring holes into your back.

“Sorry about that,” Felix apologizes, once the two of you are turning the corner and walking down the hall.

“About what?” You ask, glancing at him. “Your parents seem nice.”

Felix just sighs and shakes his head. You don’t think you can even begin to truly comprehend the emotions behind that simple gesture, so you decide to simply succumb to the silence that spreads across the air.

You spend the rest of the afternoon reading one of the books in the library. You don’t realize that it’s time for dinner until Felix is entering the space and practically dragging you along behind him to the dining room.

“I hear your birthday is coming up,” Felix’s father, James, remarks at some point throughout the meal. You look up from where you’d been absently poking at your food. There’s an expectant look on his face. You have to wonder how he knows when your birthday is. You don’t remember telling anyone about it—except for Felix, perhaps. “Yes, it is,” you agree.

“Have any grand plans?” Elspeth suggests. Her eyes quickly light up. You’re suddenly filled with trepidation. “Oh, we should have a birthday party! We could invite all your friends!” You freeze on instinct. You’re not the biggest fan of parties, and you know you definitely don’t have enough friends at Oxford to fill a place as big as Saltburn for a party. Felix’s mother glances at you expectantly, immune to your internal crisis.

You’re saved from responding by Felix’s remark. “You’re not really a party person, are you?” He asks. His parents’ gazes focus on you and you nearly sag in relief, feeling the tension seep from your shoulders.

“Oh, nonsense,” Elspeth remarks. Shit, you think. “Everyone loves parties! We’ll have to make it themed…” You resist a groan. It’s too late. Felix’s mother and father are already chattering about the details of the party, the number of people they’ll invite… You don’t want to appear ungrateful, so you stifle your objections and spend the rest of the meal staring at the wall ahead.

When dinner is finished, Felix is the first one to depart. He stares at you pointedly and gestures wordlessly to the exit. You get the idea and practically jump from your seat, grateful for an excuse to leave. You walk behind Felix, pretending not to notice how broad his shoulders are. “Sorry about that,” Felix grimaces, his back turned as he continues walking, “My mother has a bit of a one track mind, sometimes.”

“It’s fine,” you remark. You can survive one party. Besides, it may actually be enjoyable. You tell him as much and he seems to brighten up at that. That night, you recline on your mattress with thoughts flooding your mind, leaving you awake for longer than you’d like. Eventually, the curtain falls and your vision fades to black.

When you open your eyes, you find yourself standing on the balcony of the mansion, overlooking the yard. There are clothes and discarded drinks littering the previously spotless grass. What disturbs you most of all, however, is the franticness with which everyone seems to be conducting themselves. You stare out at the wreckage that must’ve come from the party and take a deep breath.

“What happened?” You ask Farleigh after walking down the steps. The expression on his face is grave and panicked at the same time. He’s wading through the pond and soaking his clothes, but he hardly seems to notice.

“We can’t find Felix,” he responds, his eyes flitting about the area. There’s a horrible tugging feeling in your stomach as you realize that Farleigh’s looking for Felix in the water. Did something happen to him? You swallow hard and walk around the grounds, trying to comprehend how Felix could have gone missing in such a short time.

Out of nowhere, Venetia screams. Feeling a shiver roll down your spine, you race over in the direction of the voice, only to find yourself running through the overgrown walls of the maze. You see Venetia’s blond hair and you quickly run over to her, only to freeze when you see what she screamed about. Felix is lying motionless in the center of the maze. You feel an itching feeling in the back of your throat, a burning sensation behind your eyes. Farleigh arrives and gasps; Venetia starts crying. You don’t know what to do, as you stand helplessly before your peer, your friend. James arrives and takes a shuddering breath, eyes glassy as he stares at the corpse of his son. For a long moment, nothing can be heard except for Farleigh and Venetia’s sobs and your ragged breathing.

“We need to move him,” James announces. You stare at him in disbelief. How is he even functioning right now? He sounds eerily calm despite the gravity of the situation.

Apparently, you don’t react fast enough, because James’s hands are soon on your shoulders and he’s shoving you towards the body. You just barely catch yourself from falling over. The patriarch grabs Felix’s shoulders and prompts for you to grab his ankles. You’re shaking. You can’t move. Tears sliding down your face, you reach down to touch the corpse—only to recoil at how cold the skin is. Suddenly, there’s a harsh sound and Felix’s body is sinking beneath the earth, engulfed by soil and pebbles—

You gasp and open your eyes, only to find yourself in your room once more. You try to breathe, but the effort burns. Sweat coats your skin and your limbs are shaky. With trembling hands, you reach out to the nightstand and take a few sips of water, before wiping the sweat from your brows. The sheets on the bed are a mess—you must’ve been tossing and turning. Your breaths are still laborious, and your chest is beginning to ache. You mechanically get out of bed and make your way to the bathroom, standing in front of the sink. Your reflection in the mirror is grim—dark circles under your eyes and a firm pull to your lips. You reach down and turn on the water, letting the freezing temperature ground you in reality. Eventually, you reach down and douse your face with cold water.

Once you’re finished, you grab a towel and dry off your face. “Hey, are you okay?” You nearly jump out of your body at the sudden voice. You wipe any remaining water droplets away, recognizing the voice as Felix’s. “I heard a scream.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to wake you up,” you mumble, rubbing a hand over your face. The water helped, but you still feel jittery and unsettled. You grasp at the edges of the sink and resolutely look down at the counter.

“Are you okay?” Felix asks again. You finally turn around, only for your mouth to go dry as your gaze settles on your friend. Felix is standing in the doorway, healthy and happy and alive. It’s such a harsh contrast from the Felix you had seen in your dreams—a pale, frozen shell of himself. Before you can recognize what you’re doing, you’re surging forward to wrap your arms around Felix. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch or push you away—instead, he pulls you close with a hand on the nape of your neck. You feel self conscious for getting so worked up about a dream, but it just felt so real. You could feel the weight of his dead body in your hands.

“Did you have a nightmare or something?” Felix whispers after a few moments. You nod quietly, not trusting yourself to speak. “I’m sorry.” He’s the one apologizing, after you made too much noise and woke him in the middle of the night with your terror. You just shake your head wordlessly.

You’re not sure how much time you spend standing there, Felix’s arms enveloping you. Eventually, the edges of the nightmare begin to fade away and your friend’s presence is undeniable. Felix is safe, you tell yourself. He is fine.

Breaking away from him feels far more difficult than it should be. You immediately miss his warmth, miss the feeling of being shielded from harm. Felix’s arms fall to his sides, before he braces them on the bathroom counter. Taken in by the inexplicable urge to touch him, you place a hand over his and pretend not to hear his startled inhale of breath.

“Thank you,” you murmur.

“Of course,” Felix responds, a note of something imperceptible in his voice. You smile and briefly squeeze his hand, before letting your grip fall away. You wish him good night and head back to your room, pushing aside any lingering convictions that he’s watching your every step. It is much easier to fall asleep once you remember that Felix is but a few steps away, alive and well.

When you wake up hours later, you’re relieved to realize that you feel far better than you did earlier. You didn’t seem to have another nightmare, thankfully. You prepare for the day and change into some casual clothes, before remembering that the party is today. You try to sneak through Felix’s room, only to find that he’s already awake. After he’s ready, the two of you head down to breakfast together. The meal is incredible, as usual.

After breakfast, you return to your room to find clothes on the bed. They’re clearly not yours—the fabric is incredibly luxurious and looks quite expensive. You glance around the room, but there’s no sign of the person who left this attire for you. Upon closer examination, you realize that it’s your exact sizing. You wonder if Felix’s parents got your sizes from the butler and ordered you something. That would certainly be very nice of them.

Secretly, you’re thankful someone had the forethought to provide you clothes. You probably would’ve stuck out like a sore thumb if you had worn any of the clothing you brought from home. After all, you don’t really belong here. You’re just a temporary guest.

With those thoughts in mind, you decide to unfold the clothes—revealing an elegant dress shirt and fine-pressed pants. The shirt is a fabric you’re unfamiliar with, and it shimmers as it catches the light. The color is quite beautiful—a cross between deep green and dark blue. Whoever purchased this outfit has good taste (or a lot of money to burn, or both). You’re almost too scared to put the outfit on, for fear of ruining the expensive fabric. Eventually, you manage to convince yourself to change clothes. As you turn to look at yourself in the mirror, you realize you barely look like yourself. That may be an exaggeration, but you still feel as if you look like an entirely different person—one who fits in here. You’re not sure how to feel about that. You had maintained that you wouldn’t change yourself to fit in at Saltburn, yet here you are—dressed as if these parties are a common occurrence for you. You take a deep breath and leave your room, deciding to walk around to get rid of some of your nerves. You eventually get roped into helping Venetia choose an outfit to wear, which kills some time.

Before long, the sun is setting in the sky and the party is beginning. You have no idea where to go or what to do—you hardly know anyone here. You haven’t caught so much of a glimpse of Felix, Farleigh, or Venetia since the party started. You do manage to find Felix’s parents, and thank them profusely for the party. It’s probably not that big of a deal to them, but you still feel that expressing your gratitude is somewhat necessary.

After that, you eventually manage to find yourself standing in one of the corners of the sprawling maze outside. You feel somewhat fatigued from the minimal social interaction you’ve had thus far, and you figure your absence won’t be a huge deal breaker for any of the other partygoers. They’re not here for you—they’re here for a party. The party just happens to coincide with your birthday. You’re not naive enough to think otherwise.

“Enjoying the party?” A familiar voice cuts through the night air. You turn around, only to find Felix standing at the edge of the maze. He takes a few steps to break the distance between you. You cross your arms over your chest and try to hide how self-conscious you feel.

“Yeah, thanks,” you remark after a moment. “You?”

Felix just nods silently. He’s staring at you intently, his gaze flitting up and down your form. “You look nice.” He says after a moment of silence. His gaze is intense and you feel flames prickling up your skin.

“Thanks,” you respond. You decide to mimic his scrutinizing gaze. “You too.” Not like that’s anything new, you think to yourself. Felix always looks nice. You’re given a reprieve from questioning that thought by Felix’s next remark.

“Happy birthday,” he says.

“Thank you.” You manage to say moments later, once your tongue no longer feels ironed to the roof of your mouth.

“I’m happy you’re here,” Felix murmurs, almost too quietly for you to hear. The night air seems to still around you.

“Me too,” you eventually admit. “It’s been… fun.” You’ve enjoyed this summer, enjoyed the time you’ve gotten to spend with Felix. You never would’ve expected yourself to enjoy spending time in a place like Saltburn, yet here you are.

“I don’t want you to leave,” Felix admits. He’s looking up to the midnight sky as if it holds all the answers. The black wings on his back seem to gleam in the moonlight. He looks like a fallen angel.

“Why?” You ask.

Felix is staring at you as if the answer to that question is extremely obvious. He then rubs a hand over his face, before turning to face the statue in the courtyard. The wings extending from his turned back create a harsh silhouette on the grass. “Why do you think I brought you here?” He suggests.

“Your parents wanted me here,” you recount.

“No,” Felix sighs, “Yes, but… no. That’s not the main reason.” You wait for him to continue. Somehow, this admission seems to be torturing him. He keeps pacing around restlessly, as if unable to keep still. Eventually, he shakes his head and comes to a stop, meeting your eyes.

“I wanted to get to know you better,” Felix admits. “I hoped that, once I got to know you, everything else would go away.” Everything else? He continues, immune to your confusion and wariness. “It didn’t. You came here, and now, the more I get to know you, the more I want to be around you.”

“Why?” You feel yourself blurting out. The words are spilling from your lips uncontrollably. “I’m just a normal student, an average person.”

“You’re far from it,” Felix argues. “And you should know that by now. You have to know by now.”

“Know… what?” You dare to say.

Felix puts a hand over his face, evidently trying to gather his thoughts. You keep silent, despite your heart drumming quickly in your chest. “I have feelings for you,” he says. “Nearly this entire time, I’ve had feelings for you. All throughout this summer.”

Felix has feelings for you? Surely that can’t be the case. Hell, he could have anyone he wanted. He’s almost constantly showered in attention and praise. Why would he want to be with you of all people? You have virtually nothing to offer him that could be useful: you’re not wealthy, nor are you a regular partygoer with a penchant for trouble. You’re just… you.

“You’re the only person that has ever bothered to try to get to know me for me,” Felix explains, as if sensing your self-deprecating thoughts. “Not as the eldest son of the Cattons. Just as Felix.”

“You don’t buy into any of this bullshit,” he continues, his eyes wandering across the walls of the maze. You immediately know he’s referring to the splendor of Saltburn, the unspoken expectations that nearly suffocate the air around you. Felix inhales slowly. “Not to mention, you’re wicked smart. Compassionate. Attractive.”

He’s taking a step towards you. Then another. You don’t stop him, and he pauses in front of you. You don’t think you’ve seen his eyes sparkle like this before.

“Can I kiss you?” Felix asks, his hand slowly rising to break the air between you and fall to cradle your jaw.

You nod wordlessly. For an awkward moment, neither of you move. Felix looks uncharacteristically hesitant. You huff a laugh and break the distance between you, putting your lips to his.

In a few moments, Farleigh and Venetia will come across the both of you and you will each be teased relentlessly for the rest of the night. Felix’s parents will exchange knowing looks when Felix and you walk into breakfast the next morning hand in hand. And Duncan, the butler, will have a wry curve to his lips—an almost indistinguishable smile—to show his hard-won approval. For now, though, you are left to embrace Felix under the shimmering moonlight, surrounded by a labyrinth of hedges and gilded mansion walls that no longer look nearly as intimidating as they once did.

whewww! i really got carried away there, didn't i? i just adore the idea of Felix being bewildered by someone not falling head over heels for him. like, the irony of him catching feelings for the *one* person who doesn't actually seem to like him... it's just too good.

i *could* write a farleigh/reader fic... so lmk if that's something y'all would want to see. no promises, though. (if i were able to write it, it would probably be much shorter than this fic, bc this one absolutely ran away from me).

anyway, hope you enjoyed this! thanks for reading! <3

taglist: @its-ares @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall

#defectivevillain #saltburn #Felix catton #Felix Catton x reader #Felix x reader #Felix Catton x gn reader #Felix Catton x male reader #Felix x gn reader #Felix x male reader #gn reader #male reader #just covering all the bases #x reader #x male reader #x gn reader #ok that's probs enough

300 notes · View notes

defectivevillain · 3 months

Text

creep

Josef

live to die another day

0 notes

defectivevillain · 3 months

Text

live to die another day

pairing: Josef/Reader

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

summary: “Hi, I’m the videographer,” you say, before introducing yourself. You decide to use a fake name—as you normally do. You don’t think anyone needs to know your real name. The majority of your customers just want a specific service from you and, as long as your videography can fulfill their desires, they don’t care what your name is. Josef seems different in that regard. He stares at you for a moment with a scrutinizing gaze. “That’s not your real name,” he says, with a ghost of a smile, “I can tell.” Josef’s stare is eerie, as if he is peering right through you.

word count: 3.1k | ao3 version

From the moment you pull into the driveway, you know something is off. At the time, you can’t explain it. But you will soon have answers to all your questions.

It begins, as most things do, with a knock on a front door. As you had trudged up the steps of this cabin, nestled away in the forest, you couldn’t help but feel a bit wary. The place is a bit too secluded for your liking—and the axe lodged into the tree stump at the foot of the stairs certainly hadn’t increased your confidence. Still, you had ultimately decided to walk up the steps and knock on the door. It’s a bit too late to go back now, you think to yourself. Besides, a thousand dollars is a thousand dollars—and you need the money.

There is no one answering the door, to your immediate annoyance. “Hello?” You say. There is no response. You decide to knock again, a bit louder than last time. For a few seconds, there is still no answer. Just as you’re about to turn around and abandon your plans for the day, the door slowly creaks open.

There is a man standing in the doorway. He has short brown hair and greenish eyes, and he wears an unassuming black shirt and pants. Overall, he looks relatively normal. “Hello, I’m Josef,” the man says, his lips tugging ever so slightly at the corners. His smile sends a shiver down your spine. The gesture looks almost wooden—mechanical and unnatural.

“Hi, I’m the videographer,” you say, before introducing yourself. You decide to use a fake name—as you normally do. You don’t think anyone needs to know your real name. The majority of your customers just want a specific service from you and, as long as your videography can fulfill their desires, they don’t care what your name is.

Josef seems different in that regard. He stares at you for a moment with a scrutinizing gaze. “That’s not your real name,” he says, with a ghost of a smile, “I can tell.” Josef’s stare is eerie, as if he is peering right through you.

“It is,” you lie through gritted teeth. Dusty alarms are flashing and blaring in your head. You need the money, you remind yourself. It doesn’t matter if this guy is a little weird. As long as you survive the night, you’ll be fine. You’ve seen weird before—you can handle weird. You just hope this guy isn’t outright dangerous. “It’s my real name.” You maintain.

There is a long pause, wrought with silence and tension. “Okay,” Josef eventually remarks, although he looks disbelieving. “Well, anyway, I’m glad you’re here. Can we start with a hug?” You don’t even get a chance to shake your head and step away before you’re being tugged past the doorway and into a hug. The man’s arms wrap around you and, for a split second, his grip feels unbreakable. You feel your breath stutter and you just barely manage to keep your composure. You get the feeling you don’t hide your thoughts well enough, because Josef has a knowing grin on his face as you break apart.

What Josef says next is, in a word, unbelievable. It’s not the story itself that seems untrue—it’s the way he delivers it. For some reason, you can’t get rid of the somewhat unfounded conviction that Josef is lying. You decide to play along, since you really don’t have a choice. It helps that Josef gives you half of the money you agreed on, with the promise that he’ll give you the rest once the night is up. Then, he promptly takes you upstairs and proclaims that he’s going to take a bath—to which you are forced to be an unwilling spectator. The man’s bath—or “tubby,” as he calls it—would be a sweet sentiment if it weren’t so… unsettling. You bite down any comments and manage to keep quiet the entire time.

If the tubby is bad, then what follows is much worse. Josef proceeds to take you on a drive towards an undisclosed location that supposedly has water with healing properties. You’re then forced to follow after him on a long, brutal hike up rocky slopes and through thickets of trees. You’re very close to giving up and abandoning the money you were promised, but the two of you manage to make it to the place Josef was looking for. He seems to think the heart carved into the rock formation below is a “sign” meant for him, and you don’t have the energy to argue. Josef then urges you to join him in wading in the water. You try refusing, but he eventually grabs you by the arm and pulls you in before you can resist. Then, the man pulls you into another hug. You feel goosebumps rising along your skin—and not just from the freezing temperature of the water.

After your hike, you stop at a diner. Josef claims the place has excellent pancakes, yet he looks at the menu as if seeing it for the first time. This is yet another red flag to add to the quickly growing pile of unsettling observations you’ve made about him. You’ve made it this far, though. You’re more than halfway through the day now. You can do this.

Your meal with Josef is awkward at first. You don’t feel like talking, and you can feel Josef’s gaze burning into your skin. Eventually, he is the one to break the silence. “Have you ever done something you’re ashamed of?” Josef asks you, in the hazy afternoon sunlight.

You still feel that honesty is dangerous, so you make up a story about falling from your chair and hitting your head in kindergarten. Josef seems to buy it. He takes another bite of his pancakes, before a contemplative expression falls onto his face.

“I have a confession to make,” he murmurs, looking at you expectantly. “Something I’m ashamed of.” You purse your lips and take a deep breath, before urging him to continue. Josef seems to hesitate. You can’t tell if his hesitation is genuine or manufactured. He pulls out his phone and opens his camera roll, before turning it around to show you. “I took pictures of you… when you first arrived.” Indeed, he swipes through several photos of you sitting in your car, walking up the steps, and standing near the front door.

Your ears are ringing. Your vision is tunneling. “Why?” You choke out.

“I thought… maybe if I got to know you before you got to know me… then I would be less scared.” Josef admits. He looks down at his interlocked hands. There is malice lingering in the pull of his lips. “Do you forgive me?”

Something is wrong with this man. You don’t know what it is, and you’re certain you don’t want to find out. You breathe in, breathe out. Blink a few times. You let your gaze wander across your surroundings. “...Yes.” You really don’t have a choice, do you? Whatever gets you out of this situation faster.

“Really?” Josef asks.

“Yes,” you respond. Josef seems to visibly brighten, and his energy from before begins to return. Meanwhile, you’re trying to figure out how to leave as early as possible. Technically, you were booked for the whole day. Fortunately, it’s already turning dark outside. Once the two of you finish eating and head back to his place, it will be late enough for you to leave. You just need to survive the rest of this meal and the car ride back.

Josef isn’t as keen to let you depart, however. Once you return to his home, he’s quick to head up the first few steps. Once he notices that you aren’t following him, he freezes and turns back around. “Come on, have a drink,” he smiles. In the dark, his eyes almost seem to glitter.

“I really should go,” you say, shoving your trembling hands into your pockets. Your heel drags back against the gravel underneath your foot. You’re so close to your car. As if sensing your thoughts, Josef walks back down the steps and stops in front of you. He claps a hand on your shoulder.

“Just one drink,” Josef insists. “Then, I promise you can leave.”

This is a horrible idea. His fingers are digging into your shoulder. “Fine,” you say through gritted teeth, refusing to acknowledge the dread coiling at the pit of your stomach. Josef’s grip leaves for a moment, before he slings his arm around your shoulders and leads you back up to his home. You’re grateful that it’s dark outside, because otherwise, he would likely see the terror you’re sure is written all over your face. Once you make it inside, Josef is quick to move to the kitchen and grab the whiskey. He returns with two glasses and pours you a drink. The two of you clink glasses and take a drink. You cough at the sheer strength of the alcohol.

“Look at us,” Josef says after a moment. “This has just been a great day. I’ve just made a friend.” We’re not friends is lodged in your throat. For some reason, you feel as if it’s dangerous to disagree. So, instead, you keep quiet.

For a while, there is nothing but a tense silence. “You’re awfully quiet,” Josef then remarks casually. “Something on your mind?” There’s a gleam in his eyes. You take a deep breath and down the rest of your drink, before getting to your feet.

“Okay,” you say resolutely, slamming your drink against the table with a bit too much force. “It’s time for me to go.”

“What?” Josef asks. You ignore him and walk towards the kitchen, grabbing your jacket and putting it on. “You just got here, we just sat down. Come on, stay a while.”

“I had a drink, and now I really need to-” You break off, freezing in place. To your surprise, the rest of your payment is tucked into the pocket of your jacket. But that’s not what you’re looking for. You rifle around in your jacket pocket one more time. Sure enough, your keys aren’t there. “Josef,” you say, your voice sounding eerily calm despite your mounting trepidation.

“Yes?” He asks, immune to your internal panic and growing suspicions.

You take a deep breath. “Do you have my keys?” You’re unable to hide the accusatory tone in your voice.

“I don’t,” Josef responds, a flicker of confusion and betrayal on his face. You frown and try to think back to where you put them. Actually, you don’t remember moving them at all. They’ve been in your jacket pocket this whole time. You never touched them. That look on Josef’s face… It’s an act, it’s all an act, you realize.

“Yes, you do,” you maintain, “I know you have them. They were in my jacket. I haven’t touched it since we got back.”

Josef stares at you for a long moment. Your heart is racing out of your chest, but you stand your ground. You can’t stay here even a moment longer. You need to get home. You need to leave, you need to escape. You can’t shake the feeling that you’re in grave danger.

You don’t know how long you spend staring at each other. At some point, Josef’s serious expression breaks into a grin. “Clever,” he says, pointing at you before reaching into his pocket. Your keys sit in his palm and, for an awful moment, you think he isn’t going to hand them over. Then, Josef throws them to you. You catch them and turn around, muttering a quick goodbye and practically running to the front door. You take the steps down two at a time, your breathing growing erratic. Even when you get into your car and lock it, you’re terrified. A dark silhouette stands out against the dim lighting cast on the porch. Josef is watching, even as you pull out of his driveway and drive away. You don’t feel safe until you’ve reached your home and have locked the door behind you. You lock all your windows, then double check that they’re locked and close the curtains. It takes a while for you to fall asleep that night.

The next morning, you’re greeted with a package on your doorstep. Inside is a disc and a stuffed wolf. The stuffed animal looks innocuous at first. Upon closer examination, you realize that there’s something rattling inside it. You hesitantly rip the back open, revealing a silver chain. When you tug the chain, it frees itself from the stuffing and catches the light in your living room to reveal a heart shaped pendant. The inside of the pendant has a photo of you next to a photo of Josef, and there are initials engraved on the outside of it. A ‘J’ for him and… an initial for your first name—your real first name. He knows your real name, and he knows your address.

After barely a moment of contemplation, you throw the necklace, wolf, and DVD in the trash. You try to go about your day as usual, but you know you’re doing a pretty poor job of pretending that everything is fine. Your coworkers tell you as much, and you’re soon dismissed with the order to “relax.” You huff a laugh at the thought. Everything is worse when you’re home, because Josef knows you live there. For all you know, he could be breaking in to watch you sleep.

In the span of three days, you get two more discs. You throw away the second one. The third one is the last one, judging from the writing on it. For some reason, you decide to trust the message and place the disc in your disc player. After all, you threw away the first two. You’re curious to see what this one contains.

For a moment, there is nothing. Then, the screen stutters to life and you find yourself looking at Josef. He raises his eyebrows at the camera, before shaking his head. Josef greets you, before uttering your real name and shaking his head. “You threw away my other gifts,” he says. “I was very disappointed. Heartbroken.” Somehow, he looks entirely sincere. Was he truly heartbroken?

“Still, I’m offering you a chance,” Josef continues, “An olive branch, if you will. I don’t want this to end between us.”

“This is Lake Gregory,” he states. “It’s wide open, as you can see…” He breaks off and pivots the camera so that you get a full view of the place. “I will be here tomorrow, sitting at this park bench.” He takes a breath and smiles, before the camera clicks off. You’re left to stare at your blank television screen in disbelief.

You know you shouldn’t go to the lake—it would be incredibly dangerous. Yet, you can’t continue living as if nothing happened. Every flicker of a shadow, every minute noise has you paranoid. You can’t keep living like this—jumping at every sudden movement. You think about calling the police again, before remembering how they treated you when you tried calling before. Josef isn’t the guy’s real name and his home was a rental. He’s virtually undetectable, the officer on the phone said. You remember hanging up and nearly slamming your phone down on the table in frustration and helplessness.

It’s a crazy thought, but this could be your chance at closure. If you don’t show up, you’re sure you’ll be stalked for the rest of your life. You’d live in constant fear, knowing that Josef could be lurking in any shadow or around any corner. But, this way, you could end things. You could put an end to the uncertainty.

The thought is what pushes you to walk out to the car determinedly the next day, plug Lake Gregory into your navigation, and drive along. Some time later, you pull into a parking spot and look out to the shimmering water. You don’t see Josef, but you get the sense that he’s here somewhere. If there were even a minute chance of you showing up, he would have to be here. You take a deep breath and step out of the car, before walking to the park bench. You’re certain your heart has never raced so fast. When you make it to the bench, you turn around with your back to the water. You’ll watch for him and wait for him to approach.

At some point, you see him. He’s wearing the Peachfuzz mask and wielding an axe. He slowly sneaks up in a few steps, before evidently noticing that you’re staring. After a moment, he takes the mask off, lets the axe fall to his side, and clears the distance between the two of you. There’s a mix of emotions flickering along his face.

“Josef,” you remark. The man closes the distance between you, until you’re only a few steps away from one another.

“Now this is what I find most fascinating about you,” Josef explains, gesturing towards you. His eyes are gleaming. He doesn’t look offended by your wariness; if anything, he looks intrigued, fascinated. “You mistrusted me from the moment we met. You gave me a fake name, fake stories. Everything was fake.” He punctuates the statement by thudding his axe against the grass.

You don’t know what to say. Your tongue feels ironed to the roof of your mouth. “I suppose I can’t complain,” Josef continues. “Because I was doing the same. Fake name, fake stories.” His hand still grips the axe. You stare at it warily.

“Everyone else was too trusting,” he remarks. “They almost seemed to give their lives to me, you know? Aaron, I mean… he just sat on that bench and waited. He never turned around.” You follow his gesture and look at the bench. After a second glance, you think you can see dried blood stains on the wood. Bile rises in your throat. You’re biting down on the inside of your cheek so hard that you can taste blood, metallic and coppery on your tongue.

“I want to get to know you,” Josef continues, taking a step forward. You match it with a half-step backwards, only to realize that you’re now standing on the very edge of the grass. One more step and you’ll fall into the lake. “The real you.”

He extends a hand, an unspoken question on his lips. The air around you seems to still. Everything falls quiet in anticipation.

Your heart thundering in your chest, you reach out and take his hand.

taglist: @its-ares @excusemeasibangmyheadonawall

#creep 2014 #creep movies #defectivevillain #x reader #gn reader #male reader #transmasc reader #nb reader #josef x reader #josef x gn reader #josef x male reader #this man is so queer #so bisexual

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defectivevillain · 3 months

Text

this winding labyrinth

chapter 3: reflux

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

summary:

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

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

typical warnings apply.

You blink your eyes open to a pounding headache and ringing ears. The ceiling above you is reeling as you’re pushed along in a gurney. Voices murmur and mumble around you, and your vision swims tauntingly. Your arm burns, stings, aches. Your eyelids feel incredibly heavy. You feel a hand on your cheek, prompting you to look into worried eyes. You blink dazedly, your vision blurring and spiraling. It doesn’t take long for you to fall into unconsciousness again.

You dream of nothing and everything. You dream of winding halls, a labyrinth that never ends. You dream of harsh corners, broken glass, shattered reflections. You dream of glinting metal, sharpened blades, and cruel smiles. You drown in soil and breathe in rot and decay. Through it all, blood sticks to your skin like a vice—a reminder of your sins.

When you finally wake, after an immeasurable amount of time, you find there to be little fanfare. There is no one for you to wake up to, nothing for you to look at save for a nearly empty hospital room with chipped paint coloring the walls. You take a deep breath and look up at the ceiling. You can hear the EKG’s steady beeps at your bedside. Your arm still hurts, but the pain isn’t nearly as bad as it was before. Upon closer examination, you realize your arm is bandaged. Blood seeps through the white bandages, threatening to mar the white sheets around you. In the still quiet of the evident night, you are gifted a brief reprieve: an escape from interaction and accountability. You’re grateful for it, even if the silence seems to vibrate with unease.

The nurse comes before long—he’s not the same one you had before. You don’t bother to question it. He reapplies your bandages and sighs. “You are immensely lucky,” he remarks, turning away for a moment. “Just a few inches to the side and you’d be dead.”

Yes, lucky, you think to yourself.

The nurse doesn’t say anything else. You have to wonder if he was told about you—told you’ve been here quite a few times within the past year, told not to bother with pleasantries. You’re left to wonder as the nurse leaves the room, promising to return in a few moments.

Nothing about this moment feels real. Maybe that’s why the guilt of your actions hasn’t quite caught up yet. You’ve felt a hint of remorse prickling along your skin, but nothing as strong as you had expected. It sort of feels like you’re dreaming. Perhaps you’ll even wake up soon.

Unfortunately, you soon have to come to terms with the fact that you are not dreaming. This is reality: bleak, unassuming reality. The weight of it all is pushing you further into this thin hospital mattress, forcing you to remain bound and silent without confines. Your arm is bandaged, because you stabbed yourself. You stabbed yourself… to engineer a situation where Clark Ingram’s death— murder , a voice in your head coos—would be justifiable. Your arm burns, both from the knife and from the knowledge of your crimes.

For the first few days of your hospital stay, you don’t get visitors. You suspect the visitors who typically stop by are growing tired of showing up. After all, this is your third or fourth time in the hospital. It’s likely more of a chore than anything else. Teetering on the edge between life and death is a scary situation, but you’ve occupied that grey area for so long now that almost nothing seems to truly surprise you.

Beverly highlights the notion when she arrives one morning. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” she quips, shoving her hands in her leather jacket after closing the door behind her. She leans against the wall.

You huff. “Hi, Bev,” you say, managing to get past the raspiness of your unused voice.

“I’m convinced you’re single handedly burning through the injury budget for our department,” Bev says with a sigh. You take a deep breath. This banter with Beverly makes you feel… normal.

“Hey, someone’s gotta do it,” you shrug goodnaturedly. Beverly rolls her eyes, before crossing her arms over her chest.

For a few seconds, there is only silence. An unfamiliar tension settles in the air. “Seriously though,” Beverly says. There is nothing but sincerity in the expression on her face. “There’s only so much of this my heart can take.” And that hits you like a knife to the gut.

You never considered how your friends must feel in these types of situations. You’ve probably caused Beverly so much unnecessary worry and concern. Selfish. “I’m sorry,” you grimace. The statement doesn’t feel like enough.

“Just… be more careful, okay?” Bev sighs. “Never thought I’d have to be the one to say that to you.” You’re not sure you trust the weight of your own words anymore, so you don’t respond. You don’t promise anything, because you’re not sure you can. Thankfully, Beverly doesn’t seem to be expecting a response. Instead, she elects to sit in the chair at your bedside. Not for the first time, you wonder how you managed to get such a good friend.

Beverly stays for a while, before the nurse comes by and kicks her out. She leaves, albeit with a grumble under her breath about unnecessary precautions. After Beverly, there is no one and nothing. Every time you close your eyes, you see Ingram’s face—the genuine fear that overtook his expression when he saw your finger inch closer towards the trigger. You see his victims, drowning in soil and suffocating. Every time you blink, you see blood spilling down your arms, coating your skin in murky crimson.

You fade in and out. The days melt into one another, stretching out into an indistinguishable, tangled mess. The healing process seems painfully slow, as if your body is forcing you to slow down and come to terms with the consequences of your own actions. These injuries are starting to take a toll. Your abdomen stings—from remembrance or genuine pain, you can’t be sure.

In the midst of a hazy and dimly lit afternoon, you get another visitor.

“Agent,” a familiar voice says. You look up and towards the door, only to find Jack Crawford standing in the doorway. He looks the same as ever, save for the concerningly tight pull to his lips and shoulders. Indeed, he looks rather tense—almost uncharacteristically so.

“Jack,” you remark. “I wasn’t expecting you.” Indeed, Jack has visited you every single time you’ve found yourself injured and confined to this hospital. It’s highly unusual for someone as high up as Jack—the Head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit—to consistently find the time to make hospital visits. It’s as your teacher once said: “When you go out, you go out alone. You will wake up alone… You will be alone.” There had been a haunting expression on her face as she said that, almost as if she were recalling a past experience. The class had been eerily silent.

Jack shoots you a disbelieving eyebrow, before his face falls back into stony callousness. The room feels a lot colder. Looks like he’s going to get right to business. “You may be wondering why you were never given another psychological evaluation,” he begins, before taking another step, “After all, Lecter did yours—and there’s no guarantee he didn’t have an ulterior motive.”

Somehow, despite all the events that transpired recently, you avoided another psychological evaluation. Any other agent would surely have been thrown into a psychiatric evaluation and several mandated therapy sessions for surviving such an ordeal… You received a grip on your shoulder and a murmured remark from Jack about doing well. You’re still not sure how to feel about that.

“Truthfully, I didn’t think you needed another evaluation,” Jack says, his lips set in a firm line. There’s something else coming. Sure enough, he continues. “I find myself questioning my judgment now. You’ve sent yourself to the hospital three times now.”

“Sent myself?” You repeat in disbelief. A shiver rolls down your spine, sending your skin prickling. “Jack, I didn’t intend for any of this to happen.” You don't enjoy the implications of his statement.

“That may be,” Jack acquiesces. His hands are clasped behind his back and he’s the picture of quiet, calm authority. “But you’ve had extensive training that deals with these kinds of situations, that teaches you what to prioritize in those kinds of moments.” You bite your tongue and keep silent.

“What disturbs me…” He breaks off once more. Jack always finishes his sentences—this kind of syntax is unusual for him. “ This -” He motions with a hand, “isn’t born out of a lackluster combat ability. You’re a damn good fighter.” You want to be honored by the compliment, but all you can feel is an unsettling apprehension. Sure enough, Jack isn’t finished speaking. “I’m going to book you for another psych eval.”

The sheets thrown over you suddenly feel far too thin, as goosebumps run along your skin. You’re brutally aware of the expression on Jack’s face—conflict and resolution fighting for prominence in the set of his jaw. “Jack-” You try to say, scrambling for something to say. It’s beginning to feel as if the walls are caving in on you.

“You haven’t made this easy, Agent,” Jack responds in lieu of an answer. He pulls something from his jacket pocket—a slip of paper with notes scrawled on it. Your heart drops into your stomach as you realize that he had planned this from the outset. “2:00 p.m. next Monday.” It is clear that Jack’s visit had one purpose, and one purpose only. He walks away, leaving you to stare after him in stunned disbelief.

In the wake of your conversation with Jack, your recovery feels nearly meaningless. What does it matter if you heal? You’re still barred from returning to work, unless you receive a signed form from the psychologist. Although, will that really be so difficult for you? A few years ago, it might have been. But since then, you’ve changed. You’ve developed, morphed into a person who has learned to be defensive, wary, covert. Indeed, haven’t you been keeping the pretense of composure this entire time? If you kept your knowledge of the Ripper’s identity hidden from him for so long, surely getting through an hour-long psychological assessment will be easy.

And, indeed, it is easy.

The psychologist you’re paired with is nice. That’s all you really have to say about them. Perhaps you’ve grown accustomed to discussions laced with existentialism while seated on expensive leather, a palpable tension sinking into the air. Or perhaps you’ve grown accustomed to answering questions with whatever the person wants to hear. You’ve gotten good at maintaining an illusion of calm and collected rationality when needed.

Plus, the evaluation protocol is extremely outdated. You have to do a Rorschach inkblot test, which makes you both thankful and extremely concerned for the future of the FBI. Safe to say, you walk out of the building an hour later with a signed paper in hand. It doesn’t take you long to decide to head right to the Bureau. Your heart is still hammering away in your chest as you drive there—even when you’re a good distance away from the psychologist’s office.

When you finally get to the Bureau and arrive in Jack’s office, you place the signed form on his desk wordlessly. For a moment, he seems too caught up in the files in his hands to notice. After a few moments, he blinks and drags the paper closer to him. Jack examines the paper with a critical eye, before turning his attention back towards you.

“Surprised?” You ask, as he studies your expression. Jack seems to be looking for something. You try to maintain a flat affect, if only so that he doesn’t find whatever he’s searching for.

He sighs. “Agent, you know this is just protocol,” Jack responds. “No, I’m not surprised. It would be highly unprofessional of me to have expectations of the result.” He finishes. You want to believe him.

But you know deep down that Jack expected you to fail—perhaps even wanted you to fail. “Welcome back, Agent.” You know your mind is conjuring up the tone of resignation in his voice.

You exit his office and walk back down the halls, an unexpected guilt stirring in your chest. You shouldn’t have lied to the psychologist. On the other hand, you knew that if you were truthful, you would never be able to return to the field. And there are lives at stake. You’re not foolish enough to think that your mere presence is enough to decrease criminality at large, but you know that the Bureau needs as many agents as possible on the front lines.

There’s a buzzing, humming sound along your skin. “If you truly cared about the lives at stake, you would stay away,” a voice reasons. It takes you a few moments to realize that it’s Clark Ingram. A social worker has joined the group of tormented souls inhabiting the shadows of your mind. The irony is not lost on you. You shake your head, before taking a deep breath and continuing to walk down the hall, your muscle memory navigating you towards your office even when your attention is elsewhere. “How many have been killed in the wake of your complacency?” Ingram continues relentlessly. “Your neutrality is just as dangerous as my cruelty.”

Your head pounds as you turn the corner to get to your office. When you finally find yourself standing in the doorway, you remember that you haven’t used the space in a bit—there’s dust collecting on the edges of your bookshelf and the surface of your desk. You close the door and sit down in your chair, ignoring the chilling recognition that you’re sitting right where Franklyn died. For a moment, you can feel phantom burgundy tears slipping down your cheeks. When you blink, you’re subject to the illusory sensation of someone reaching deep into your eye sockets and tugging, ripping at your optic nerves and tearing your sight away from you.

Your leg bounces restlessly. The clock’s hand makes its routine journey across the smooth surface of the instrument, and its movements flit before your eyes in flickering flashes. You rub your eyes roughly. Conversations from the hall reach your ears, until they distort and morph into voices that continue to haunt you. Your fingers are twitching.

Time is a fickle thing. Your office doesn’t have windows to let in sunlight, so you’re forced to take in the noise from the hallway to determine how long you’ve spent fading away in your chair. A rattling breath overtakes you, prompting you to breathe in and breathe out in a shuddering movement. You dig the heels of your hands into your eyes, letting the spiraling colors that manifest overtake your vision.

When you open your eyes moments later, you’re briefly assaulted with a wave of sharpness and clarity. Then, your vision adjusts and you’re left staring at your unassuming office: the remains of your neat and tidy life. Somehow, deep-down, you know things will not stay that way.

Your hands itch and you roll up your sleeves, despite knowing you won’t see soil caked on your skin like you’re imagining. Indeed, your arms are bare—save for the bandaged wound that you’re sure will scar. Looking down at it provokes a stirring feeling in your gut as memories of that day reach the forefront of your mind.

For a while, you had lingered precariously on the edge between morality and criminality. Have you since slipped off that edge? When did your balance first falter? Were the scales already tipped—perhaps from the moment you sleep walked onto the road, finding yourself looking into the darkness and locking eyes with a crimson gaze? When did your grip start to weaken?

And… where does that wavering leave you now?

next chapter

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