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defectivevillain · 5 months

Text

tongues and teeth

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

reader's pronouns & race: unspecified, ambiguous

summary:

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

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

word count: 6k | ao3 version

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, Chef-” Franklyn sputters.

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

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

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

“How is it?” Lecter questions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay,” Chef Lecter insists.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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khami-the-raccoon · 6 months

Note

I love sibling relationships.

Could you do Hannibal x Twin!Reader (platonic)? Reader is Hannibal’s identical twin, and teaches Reader how to cook.

Hello! Thank you for your request, I wrote the reader as male, but if you prefer it to be GN I’ll gladly change it! Please specify the reader’s gender : )

Hannibal x Twin! Male reader (platonic)

Summary: Hannibal x male reader, where they are identical twins, and they spend quality time together. (Platonic)

Word count: 833 (?)

Hannibal Lecter Masterlist

General Masterlist

Part 2

Hannibal Lecter had an identical twin brother, Y/N Lecter. Born into the same dark legacy, the two siblings had taken vastly different paths in life. Hannibal, a renowned psychiatrist with a taste for fine cuisine, and Y/N, an unassuming bookstore owner who knew little about the culinary arts.

One evening, Hannibal decided it was time to bring Y/N into his world. He invited his brother to his home, an architectural masterpiece hidden in the heart of Baltimore. Y/N arrived with curiosity, looking around, his twin’s home was nothing like his. It was way bigger and surely more expensive. “I must say, brother, this house is quite the luxury,” Y/N said as he walked inside the mansion. Hannibal chuckled, he was very happy to have his brother back with him.

They had lived in different places for a long time, and they barely talked. Their lifestyles were very different. Y/N was all about simplicity, while Hannibal expressed himself through his house, clothes, and everything he owned.

As the brothers reunited, Hannibal guided Y/N to his impeccably designed kitchen, a realm where art and darkness met. The aroma of freshly roasted herbs and spices wafted through the air, a beautiful symphony that danced on their senses. Hannibal, dressed in his signature impeccable suit, introduced Y/N to one of his favorite things to do; cooking.

"Brother, it is time you learn one of the most beautiful forms of art," Hannibal said, a hint of mischief in his eyes.

Y/N, dressed in a simple apron, was both intrigued and apprehensive. "I've never been much of a cook, Hannibal.

Hannibal, with his usual charm and charisma, reassured him, "As I said before, cooking is an art, and you, my dear brother, are about to become a true artist."

And so, the lessons began. Hannibal patiently taught Y/N the intricacies of knife skills, the balance of flavors, and the importance of presentation. He introduced him to rare ingredients, guiding his hands to create culinary masterpieces that rivaled the finest restaurants in the world.

As the days turned into weeks, Y/N got totally into this new world his brother had opened up for him. He learned to see beauty in things like chopping meat and arranging food on a plate, and how to make flavors sing in a single dish.

But along the way, Y/N couldn't help but notice the darkness lurking in Hannibal's eyes, the same darkness that made him famous. Yet, there was something unexplainable that bound them as brothers, something that went beyond their differences.

Hannibal and Y/N's cooking sessions became more than just culinary lessons; they were a window into their shared past. One evening, as they stood side by side at the kitchen island, Y/N couldn't help but ask, "Hannibal, how did we end up on such different paths?"

Hannibal paused for a moment, a contemplative look in his eyes, as he continued to work on their meal. "It's a question I've often asked myself, Y/N," he began, his voice tinged with a hint of nostalgia. "Perhaps it was the same darkness that dwelled within us both, but I chose to embrace it in a way that allowed me to savor it, to appreciate the beauty in it, while you, Y/N, chose a different path. You found solace in the simplicity of life, in the pages of books and the quiet of your bookstore."

Y/N nodded thoughtfully, understanding that their choices had led them down distinct, yet connected, roads. "It's as if we're two sides of the same coin, Hannibal. You indulge in the darkness, and I... I've always sought the light."

Hannibal smiled and nodded, a rare warmth in his eyes, and placed a perfectly plated dish in front of Y/N.

As the evening continued, the brothers sat together, eating the meal they had just prepared. They were feeling a heavy feeling of nostalgia, as they talked happily about memories of their childhood as twins.

A few days passed, and Hannibal taught Y/N a lot more about cooking. It was a quiet evening, just the two of them in the kitchen, working side by side. Y/N was meticulously slicing vegetables for a dish they were preparing, while Hannibal expertly seared a piece of meat.

Hannibal glanced at Y/N, a warmth in his eyes that was rare for him. "You know, Y/N," he said, "I've missed having you in my life. I've missed having my brother around."

Y/N looked up from his cutting board, and for the first time in a long time, he saw a genuine smile on Hannibal's face. "I've missed you too, Hannibal," he admitted, his voice filled with emotion. "I never thought we'd end up like this, cooking together."

Hannibal nodded, and in that moment, they shared a deep understanding that went beyond their differences. They were brothers, twins, with a bond that couldn't be broken by time or the paths they had chosen

#male reader #fanfic #x male reader #trans male reader #writing #hannibal lecter #hannibal nbc #hannibal x male reader #hannibal #hannibal x reader #platonic

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alina-dixon · 1 year

Text

Open doors never mean a good thing

Pairing: Hannibal x Male reader x Will

TW: near death, blood, violence, killing, angst, fluff.

Requested: Yes / No

---

It was late, your husbands Hannibal and Will were just done with a new case and ready to head home to you. Both sitting in the Car and about to pull into the driveway. “Do you think he would be happy if we went to an amusement park with him?” Will asked glancing over at Hannibal who drove the car.

Will and Hannibal had planned to go to an amusement park with you tomorrow, and they wanted to tell you at today's dinner, as a little surprise.

Hannibal looked over at Will for a moment and back to the street, smiling. “I'm sure he would love it, you know how childish he can be. He would probably enjoy it more than most of the people that went there.” Will laughed at that, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, probably!”.

Some time went by and they finally pulled into the driveway, getting out of the car, they felt like something was off... And they were right. The moment when they walked to the door they noticed that it was open. This alarmed the both of them and Will pulled his weapon out.

“O-Open doors never mean a good thing” mumbled Will, looking at Hannibal who was also ready to kill if he needed to. They made their way slowly into the house when they heard a noise coming from the living room.

When They got there, they stood on the side of the doorframe, looking inside their eyes widened with horror. There were two men with bloodied clothes in the room, standing right in front of their blood stained and beaten up Husband who was hanging from the ceiling, gasping and panting while struggling against the ropes that were strangling him, trying to stay alive.

Instantly both of them run into the room, Hannibal with a knife and Will with his gun raised. Both men turned around at the sound of the steps only to be greeted with an angry Hannibal and an even so angry Will. Will shot the first man into his arm, while Hannibal was trying to stab the other one with his knife, which leads him to lose it and to fight the man with bare hands.

So when Will shot the male in his head he ran towards Hannibal and the other male he instantly shot him, when the man fell they rushed to their still struggling Husband who was about to turn blue from the lack of air. “Hold on Y/N! Hannibal get the knife!” Will screamed on the verge of tears.

While Hannibal rushed to get the knife from the floor Will had put his arms around your legs and held you up, so you won't strangle to death. Hannibal rushed back with a chair and the knife. He stepped onto the chair cutting you loose, now completely falling into Will’s arms.

Will slowly put you onto the floor “Please Y/N! You have to hold on!” now fully on crying as he saw how bloody and beaten up you were, you also had stab wounds and cuts all over your body, and your face was swollen and you had a black eye, your flannel shirt torn, and your jeans were ripped. Hannibal also had tears rolling down his face as he kneeled next to you “We’re here dear, it's going to be okay” he whispered while caressing your face with his right hand. Your breath was uneven and your eyes were almost closed.

Will stood up, pulling his phone out of his jacket, struggling to call Jack. When Jack picked up he only could hear someone crying on the other side “Will? Will!? What's going on? What happened!?” Jack was getting worried when Will didn't respond for a minute. “J-Jack! W-We need y-y-you a-and an A-Ambulance! Y-Y/N got attacked. One I-of the attacker's s-still lives.” Will trambled over his own words almost choking.

This alarmed Jack “Shit! We will be on our way, hold on!” Running could be heard on Jack’s side. “Hurry the Fuck up we've got somewhere to be, we’ll need an ambulance too!” more running could be heard. “We will be there shortly!” and with that Jack hung up.

Will’s hands were trembling as he puts his phone away, and walked back to Your side, he kneeled down and held onto your arm with one hand, and with the other one he held Hannibal’s arm. “Why-why is this happening!? Why him!?” Will cried looking at Hannibal. “I don't know, but Jack has to find out why!” Hannibal’s voice was angry, which is normal when your Husband was about to be murdered by some assholes. Hannibal kissed the top of Will’s head.

Suddenly footsteps could be heard from outside same as the shouting from Jack. Jack, four FBI agents, and three medics came rushing inside. When Jack saw Y/N on the floor his eyes widened “Shit! Hurry up and get him to the hospital!” Jack screamed, as the medics pushed Hannibal and Will off of you.

When jack looked at the FBI agents, they already had the man who was still alive handcuffed. “Get him out! And send the others in to get the corpse!” Jack turned to Hannibal and Will “What happened?” he asked trying to calm himself down. “We d-don’t know. W-When we drove h-here the door was open. A-And when we came i-in these men w-were standing in front o-of him, a-and he was hanging from the ceiling.” Will hugged Hannibal, eyes red and puffy as he cried into his shoulder. Both of them were still in shock.

Hannibal’s eyes were red too “Either way you find out why they did this, or we will” Hannibal was serious and that is for sure. Jack sighed and nodded his head, knowing that Hannibal was serious “We will inform you about everything we get.” when Jack said that he saw the medics getting Y/N out of the house. Jack, Will, and Hannibal followed suit.

“Will, you should drive with Y/N. I’ll drive after you.” Hannibal said as he got Will into the ambulance. Will nodded shakily, sitting down.

So when the doors of the ambulance closed shut it immediately drove off, sirens on. Hannibal got into his car and speed off after the ambulance.

Jack sighed, anger could be seen on his face, as he was in for a long night.

Will’s mind was racing, he was scared for your life. One of the medics put a mask on your face so that you could breathe normally again, as the other one gave you something for the pain.

The drive took about 10 minutes as the ambulance arrived at the hospital. The doors of the ambulance shot open as they rushed you inside the doctors immediately started rushing you into the Op, Will and Hannibal right beside you. “You have to hold on Y/N!” Will cried out, holding onto your hand.

When they were bursting through to doors to the Op a doctor stops them. “I'm sorry but you will have to wait outside, but if you want to sit down there are seats right there” the doctor pointed to a bunch of seats not too far from the Op entrance. Hannibal nodded and grabbed Will’s arms slowly walking to the seats to sit down.

Will was trambling in Hannibal’s arms, he strokes Will’s hair to comfort him. “I hope he makes it” Will sobbed. “I'm sure he will make it, he has one of the strongest wills that exists,” Hannibal said soothingly. Normally Hannibal wasn't a person who is afraid of anything really, but when it came to you and Will, it was something else. And it scared him, the thought that he could lose you right now was scaring him shitless.

After what seemed to be 3 hours a nurse came out, making both of them stand up as the nurse walked towards them. “How is he!?” Will immediately asked the nurse. “He is stable, we will put him onto the intensive care unit. They are already on their way there, but it will take him probably another hour to wake up. I will take you to him, so if you would like to follow me.” she said, Hannibal and Will nodded. “Of course,” Hannibal said as they to followed the nurse.

“He will have to stay a weak and a half or so, because he also had a few broken ribs and a sprained ankle,” she said calmly as they stopped in front of a door. “Were here” she simply said as she knocked lightly at the door before opening it.

When they stepped inside there was another nurse that was putting a bag with some liquid onto the hook, it was for the pain. so you won't be in pain when you woke up.

It was a heartbreaking sight for both of them when they saw all those bandages around you. “The doctor will come in an hour to see if he’s awake.” and with that, both nurses left the room.

They walked towards you, and sat to your right. They both sat down and both of them took your hand into their own.

After a while you suddenly gripped their hand tight, making both of them shoot right up. When they looked at you they saw you smiling at them which calmed them down. “Hey, love” was what Hannibal said “hey, sweetheart” Will whispered, making you smile even wider. “Hey~” you whispered back as you began to sat up a little more straight which Hannibal helped you with.

“How are you feeling, love?” Hannibal asked stroking your hair. “I'm feeling good actually. And you? You both must have been worried.” you asked back arching a brow making both of them chuckle. “We're fine now that we know that you're good.” Hannibal awnsered “Yeah, more than happy.” Will nodded his head. Suddenly there was a knock on the door and it opened. The Doctor walked in and started smiling. “I see your awake, how are you feeling Mr. Lecter/Graham?” he asked stopping in front of the bed.

You smiled back at the doctor. “I'm feeling good, thank you!” the doctor laughed a little. “That's good! You will be able to leave within five days, because of your healing. Your healing seems to be extremely faster than anyone else, which is extremely good for you, so you won't be staying too long here.” the doctor exclaimed. You nodded your head and thanked him as he left again.

These five days went by quickly, The guy that was still alive was put to jail for the rest of his life. And you were going home today, but you still couldn't walk so they had to get a wheelchair for you, till your ankle is fully healed just like your ribs. “Alright, your good to go the papers are all taken care of. Take care Mr. Lecter/Graham. And a good day you three.” the doctor said as he left.

“Alright let's get you into the wheelchair, sweetheart.” Will said. “yeah.” you nodded. Hannibal had placed the wheelchair next to your bed holding it as Will was helping you. “Lift your arms for me please, sweetheart.” he asked, and you happily obliged to that making him and Hanninal chuckle. So he put one arm around your back and put the other under your legs, making you put your arms around his neck. He carefully lifted you and carefully put you into the wheelchair.

“Alright, let’s go.” Hannibal said as you made your way out of the hospital. When you reached the car you spoke up. “Can we go eat something? I'm hungry!” You asked looking at them with big eyes, making them chuckle, Hannibal nodded. “Of course we can, love. Where do you want to go?” he asked. You closed your eyes pretending to think of something even if you already knew where you wanted to go. “To (favorite Restaurant)!” you exclaimed opening your eyes and grinning at them. Both of them laugh at your childlike behavior. “(favorite Restaurant) it is then!” Will said as he opened the back door of the car and lifted you out of the Wheelchair and sat you inside, while Hannibal put the Wheelchair in the trunk.

Will buckled you up and kissed you on your lips and so did Hannibal before closing the door to get in. Hannibal got into the driver's seat and Will into the passenger seat. “I love you” you said lovingly. “We love you too” they both said and with that, they drove off to the restaurant.

#hannibal x male reader #will x male reader #will graham #hannibal lecter #hanninal #gay #male reader #male x male #male x male reader #x male reader #lgbtq #x male y/n #will graham x male reader #hannibal lecter x male reader

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shuichiakainx · 4 months

Text

I started the Hannibal series and I'm already literally loving it 😍

#hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal fanart #hannibal and will #hannibal series #hannibal show #hannibal x reader #hannibal nbc #will graham #hannigram #will graham x reader #will graham x hannibal lecter #will graham x you #hannibal x you #hannibal x will #hannibal x clarice #hannibal x male reader

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marksbear · 1 year

Note

hello there! can you do Will Graham x male reader? Just headcanon about what kind of names Will would call his boyfriend🦈🦈 (if you are too tired to do this request, its okay! <33)

Hi! I love everything about Will, so I would love to write this for you my friend! I hope you like it!

WILL GRAHAM X MALE READER

-Likes to keep a picture of you in his wallet. He would give it a quick glance before heading into a case. Your picture is his little good luck charm.

-He wouldn't keep you a secret, but isn't open about it. For example he wouldn't talk about you for hours to someone (only with his dogs he does.) but if someone asked if he had a s/o he would tell them about you straight up.

-Mandatory fishing trips together.

-He most def wouldn't tell Hannibal about you. He wants you to stay the hell away from him.

-Probably tells you about the cases hes working on. Even if he isn't supposed to tell someone he'll tell you without hesitation if you asked.

-You being there when he's sleepwalking every step of the way. Even having to wake him up a few times.

-You and him sleeping together makes him fall asleep faster. To the point he can't sleep without you.

-He would like to vent to you if you let him. He'll just vent to you while cuddling with one of the dogs while you sit next to him and listen. After he's done and realizes what he'd done he'll feel embarrassed, but he trusts you even more.

-Jack coming to Will's house unexpectedly and opening the door and walks inside. "Will! I got-" Jack trails off looking down at you two play wrestler with the dogs. "Never mind." Jack says before leaving the house going back to his car.

-Likes to call you something traditional or something sweet. Like hun/honey, love,sugar, idiot or sometimes even bug. He didn't know where bug came from one day he called you it and never let it go. He means the pretty bugs y'know.

-Walks around his property with the dogs.

-Late night conversations.

-Begins to tell you more about Hannibal as the days go by. Like what him and Hannibal were talking about and etc.

-Long warm hugs after he comes back home from work. Just standing in the middle of the doorway hugging each other in loving silence. Just silently reassuring each other.

-Him letting you play and style his hair. It helps him relax when you do it, so he asks you to do it more often.

-Constantly reassuring him that you love him because he's an insecure mess and overthinks a lot. Like you don't love him or you're just using him.

-Him smiling to himself just at the thought of you or the mention of your name.

-Drinking coffee together at the front porch in early in the morning just enjoying the others company.

-Him waking you up after he has a nightmare. He curls up in your chest holding onto your clothes tightly as you cradle him in your lap kissing the top of his head. "I'm here Will. Don't worry baby i'm right here."

-Him having nightmares about losing you to the point he tells Hannibal about you and his fear of losing you, because he couldn't keep it to himself anymore.

-Will refusing the offer to let you two meet over dinner. Like he shot down the proposal so fast.

-Ms Lounds trying to get you to speak about Will. Like trying to make you spill all the bad things you know about him. And you just give her the bird and walk away.

-You two probably getting married either in the forest or by a dock.

-I think he's fine with the dogs, but if he ever wants to start a real family he'll want like two daughters and one boy.

THE END!

#will graham x male reader #will graham #hannibal x male reader #nbc hannibal #nbc hannibal x male reader #x male reader #male reader #slashers x male reader #slasher x male reader #the bear club

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im-657-mv · 8 months

Text

under the moon

yandere hannibal x reader

word count: 876

The lucid moon hung low in the sky, casting an eerie glow over the quiet city streets. But deep in the shadows where the darkness weeps, conceals a man of true vigor and intellect. A man of passion that no one truly understands, no one will. He stalks through the very shadows he creates ignoring all but one. You.

Hannibal's love has grown reaching new depths he's sure no one else has before. Only he can love you as much as the sun loves the moon, as much as the stars must conjoin with the night sky. It was insatiable like a carnivorous hunger that consumed both his thoughts and actions. He knew it was dangerous and he had tried to suppress what he called his natural instincts, but his appetite only increased. Tonight was the night that will bookmark the ages. Tonight was when he would finally take matters into his own itching desires.

His gloved hand delicately traced the outline of your apartment door lock, his fingers dancing over the cold metal with a perverse intimacy yet unknown to you, yet. Slowly a sinister smirk made its way across his dimly lit face as he thought of your naive sense of safety. A fickle thing such as a door lock keeping all the evil seemingly at bay, how innocent.

With a deft flick, the lock yielded to his touch, and he slipped inside, the darkness of the room enveloping him with a sense of familiarity. Immediately his nose clung to the scent of your natural aroma that engulfed him, a fragrance that sent a chilling shiver down his spine. Hannibal moved with a predator's grace, his steps silent against the floor. The faint radiance of the moonlight filtered through the curtains, blessing him with an uncanny shadow that he could move across.

As he made his way through your apartment, Hannibal's gaze fell upon the multitude of photographs that adorned the walls. Images of you in various stages of your life prior to him. He stood still, frozen, looking at your life that stared back at him, your eyes seemingly following his every move. He reached out, his fingers brushing up against the cool glass of the frame as if trying to desperatly bridge the gap between himself and you.

A sinful smile curved his lips as he continued his exploration, his eyes drawn to a doorway that led to your devout bedroom. With each step, his heart raced with a mix of excitement and anticipation. He knew he was crossing a line, but the thrill of his own audacity fueled his every move.

Pushing open the bedroom door, Hannibal's breath caught in his throat. There you lay in a peaceful slumber, your chest rising and falling in a rhythmic pattern appearing to sink up with his own. The moonlight watered through the window casting an ethereal glow over your features. Hannibal's pulse quickened, his fingers yearning to touch, to possess.

He approached the bed with a quiet reverence, his fingers tracing the curve of your jawline, the contours of your lips. His touch was a paradox, gentle yet possessive, humane yet sadistic as if he could claim your very essence through his caress. As Hannibal's fingers danced over your exposed skin, he reveled in the sensation, a heady rush of desire and obsession.

But he wasn't content with a simple touch, he deserves more. Slowly, he withdrew a small, gleaming blade from his pocket, the metal glinting in the moonlight blessing you. He held his breath, his heart pounding in his chest, as he brought the blade closer to your skin.

With meticulous precision, he made a shallow incision along the curve of your collarbone, a delicate line that blossomed with a trickle of your holy blood. You stirred slightly in your sleep, a soft sigh escaping your lips. Hannibal watched and lay witness to your presence, eyes wide with a twisted fascination as the blood welled up and flowed along the path he, God, has carved.

A sickening mixture of horror and delight coursed through Hannibal's veins. He leaned closer, instinctually, his lips hovering just above the wound, his breath mingling with the metallic scent of blood, your sacred blood. It was almost too much, the temptation to taste, to possess you even more intimately was irresistible. If you were just another person he would've killed and eaten you by now, but you were no animal for slaughter. You deserve life. You deserve his guidance, you needed it. You needed his eternal love.

He drew his lips to your mark, his mark, and painted his tongue red, cherishing in the feeling of obsession. Hesitant he withdrew his mouth from your wound, leaving behind nothing but a faint red mark. He had to step back before he decided something impulsive, something that wasn't planned until later in your destiny. His heart continued to race with a mix of triumph and euphoria. He had left his mark on you, a testament to his love and devotion.

With one final lingering look at your sound asleep figure, Hannibal slipped back into the shadows, leaving behind the darkness of his desire and the undeniable truth that he would do anything to keep you within his grasp.

#hannibal #fannibal #yandere hannibal #hannibal x reader #hannibal x male reader #hannibal brain rot please help #send stuff for hannibal pls

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voxmortuus · 10 months

Note

Hi! Can I please make a request?

If yes: thank you!

Could you write Hannibal giving his male!reader a blowjob?

Thank you and I hope you have a good day!

✧*̥˚ PAIRING: *̥˚✧ Hannibal x M!Reader ✧*̥˚ UNIVERSE: *̥˚✧ Hannibal ✧*̥˚ PROMPT: *̥˚✧ See above ✧*̥˚ WORD COUNT: *̥˚✧ 480 ✧*̥˚ TRIGGER WARNINGS: *̥˚✧ PWP | Male Oral | Male Finish | PLEASE TELL ME IF I FORGOT ANYTHING!!! I want to make sure readers are fully aware of what they are getting themselves into when they read this… ✧*̥˚ NOTES: *̥˚✧ I hope this finds you well. Pretty basic request. Thank you for an easy porn without plot request was easy to bust out. Sorry it took so long had family over yesterday. Hope you enjoy ✧*̥˚ DIVIDER CREDIT: *̥˚✧ @nyxvuxoa ✧*̥˚ My Master Masterlist | Hannibal Masterlist *̥˚✧

Never sloppy, this man was a professional even in intimate moments. However, the only reason why he was on his knees in front of you and not the other way around was because he lost a bet. He wasn't a sports fan, and you knew that you took advantage of the situation, and now you were being rewarded. It wasn't every day he lost a bet either, but, that being said, you were immensely enjoying what you felt was a well-deserved reward.

As the hot shower water adds to the pleasure, you look down, watching as his lips form perfectly around you, savoring the flesh, making sure you are well tended to. The stroke of his hand, the bob of his head, the attention to the little details. How you could feel the tension and tautness of the lips to add that perfect amount of pressure around, tight but not too tight.

You hang your head back as you enjoy this moment. The subtle stroke of his hand as his mouth glides along your slick stiffened flesh. Of course, he knew what he was doing, and you were bearing witness to it now.

Looking back down you watch as his lips move along the side of your cock, the length from base to tip, his tongue curled around the underside of your shaft, the way he moved along the side and wrapped around back to the tip only to press your head between his lips again and press you to the back of his throat as he picks up the pace.

You hang your head back and let out a long draw out moan into the bathroom as it echoes in the shower bouncing off those glass walls. Your body tenses with this intense wave of heat. Feeling it wash over you it's like prickles to your flesh. You let out another moan. Your eyes close as you reach down and grip the back of his head as your hips buckle in a rhythmic motion.

The faster he moves the faster your hips move in a perfect tandem motion. The perfect about of give and take. With a faster bob comes a tighter pressure, comes a quicker build of your own pressure but you're unable to hold back any longer. Before you could even get a word in edgewise you're letting out a loud moan of pure satisfaction. Your voice echoes in his ears.

As your cock twitches with your finish, like the professional this man is, Hannibal takes the load, proceeds to stand up with your cock in hand, pulls you closer, and looks down at you as he stands a fair bit taller than you.

"Next time, you're the one on your knees…" He stated with a small smirk.

"Whatever you say." You state with a soft chuckle kind of out of breath and in a daydream-like state.

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sykosomatic · 10 months

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Could i request Hannibal x trans male reader? Nsfw pls!! maybe reader is feeling a bit dysphoric, so Hannibal decides to show him how much he loves and lusts for him❤️

oh that’s lovely! <3 i’m assuming you mean nbc hannibal so that’s who i’m going with lol (and i feel like i can write that version better)

hannibal x trans male reader!

cw: p in v sex, oral sex (afab receiving), praise kink, food mention, fingering (afab receiving), use of the words clitoris, pussy and cock, reader wears a binder/doesn’t have top surgery, hannibal finishes in reader’s mouth

•••••

you’d been visiting hannibal for his little dinner dates for a few months now; it had become something more than patient/doctor hospitality along the way, and now your relationship with him sat more in the category of lovers. thought you’d only kissed up to this point; you didn’t want to tell him, but you were quite insecure with your body image.

sure, he was your therapist, so he knew more than a little bit about your personal situation; but he was always the type to separate pleasure from work.

you sat down at his table, watching him in the kitchen area fussing with the presentation of the food he was cooking. it smelled… amazing. you were always so impressed with his talent for cooking, his dedication to the craft itself. he cooked for you like an artist creating a masterpiece.

hannibal approached you with the plates of food, telling you what it was as he sat it down in front of you. he watched you as you shifted in your seat, trying to be discrete about the fact that your clothes were feeling strange against your skin; mostly your binder, which was sitting funny on your ribs. his expression was unreadable as he described the dish to you, acting as if he didn’t see the look of slight discomfort on your face.

“enjoy, my dear,” hannibal said to you, the slightest smile on his lips as you started to eat the delicious food on your plate.

“oh, this is…” you groaned at the taste. “this is so good..” you were never one for fancy words, but you admired the way he spoke like a poet.

he grinned warmly, eyes shining with pride. “thank you,” he chirped, eating his own dish. after a few moments of comfortable silence, you noticed he was looking up at you and you blushed a bit.

“do i have something on my face?”

“only the most divine beauty,” hannibal responded, dabbing at his mouth with one of his fancy cloth napkins. your face went warm.

“o-oh.. um, thank you,” you breathed, looking away from his intense gaze.

“your spectacular allure puts the moon and stars to shame, my dear,” he pontificated; he was always saying dramatic things like this about you, telling you how handsome you were and how much he loved looking at you or being in your presence. it made your stomach do flips and sent waves of heat down into your abdomen.

“you always do know exactly what to say,” you smiled over at him, starting to realize why he was saying all these things. “you saw me fixing my shirt earlier, didn’t you?” you teased, leaning your chin into the palm of your hand, resting your elbow on the table. this was a bit of a faux pas in polite company, but he was so enamored with you that he didn’t seem to mind.

“it is really so unbearable for me to see you distress about your appearance in such a way, my dear,” hannibal admitted. he reached a hand over and set it on your leg, fingers brushing your inner thigh. you glanced down for a moment, feeling flushed at the contact. “i wish that you would see yourself the way i do, see your radiance from my eyes.”

you searched his eyes, heart beating fast; he inched his hand up your thigh, as if asking permission for something.

“would you allow me the honor of showing you how much i dearly admire you?”

oh.. oh! he was asking to fuck you, wasn’t he? you could feel yourself getting all wired up at the thought. you nodded your head, almost imperceptibly, but enough for him to know what you were saying.

hannibal took your hand, guiding you to stand. the two of you took your plates into the kitchen, clearing the table before he grabbed your hips and connected your lips to his for a heavy kiss. you let yourself melt into him, his arms holding your frame up against his. your kisses got more passionate until he started to push you backwards, against the table. his hands feverishly went for your shirt, unbuttoning the buttons one by one, slowly so that you could tell him to stop if you needed.

but you didn’t. you trusted him; and he continued. you were nervous for him to see you laid bare, but a large part of you was excited for it.

he pulled your shirt off of your arms slowly, taking care to kiss every inch of your exposed skin. he left your binder on for you, letting you decide when you wanted it off. he whispered sweet things in your ear, praising you, telling you just how handsome you were, and how much he wanted to make love to you. you were melting from the inside out at his touch, biting your lip as he unzipped your pants and started to slide them down. his hand brushed against your slit slowly, but with just enough force to make your shiver.

he looked up at you for confirmation before doing the same with your underwear, taking them off and revealing your pussy to him. he made a soft noise, a groan; you could see that he’d started getting really hard beneath his pants. you bit your lip. he’d gotten hard just by looking at you? fuck.

“oh, your body is magnificent, my dear. you’re so handsome, so radiant—“

you cut him off by grabbing his tie and pulling him against you, kissing him hard and wrapping your arms around his shoulders. his hands went to your sides, rubbing on you lovingly. after a moment you guided his hands to the bottom of your binder; you were reader for him to see you. and he didn’t take the privilege lightly. as it was exposed, hannibal massaged your chest gently with his hands, pinching and tugging on your nipples until you whimpered and whined into his chest.

he pulled one hand away to touch your pussy, rubbing your slickened slit and circling your clitoris with his fingers. god it felt so good. you whined into his chest, letting him worship you as streams of praise left his lips, telling you how good you were and how perfect.

hannibal got down onto his knees at this point, spreading your legs open so he could get better access. he slipped a finger in and you felt like you were on fire. it felt so good. he put his head between your legs and started giving you head, his tongue devouring you like it was his last meal. his tongue slipped in with his finger, and you could feel yourself already about to finish.

a second finger slid in, and you unraveled completely; hannibal slurped up your mess and continued to finger you, bending his fingers inside of you and hitting that perfect euphoric spot. “oh, god.. oh fuck…” you whined, unable to stand sitting up anymore. you laid back on the table, hands in hannibal’s hair, tangling in the silky strands. your hips bucked against his hand and face, rocking you to a second orgasm on his now three fingers.

“ooh… oh, fuck,” you whined, body sensitive and needy still. it felt so good; he treated you so well. you could see him standing up, leaning over the table to kiss your lips, allowing you to taste your own sweetness. “will you… will you fuck me?” you whined to him, hands on his chest, trailing down to his pants. you hastily tried his zipper and your trembling hands couldn’t do it.

he chuckled at you. “is that not what i’ve been doing?” he teased, unzipping his pants for you. he reached in and rubbed his cock through his pants; you could see a small wet spot.

“your cock.. i need your cock…”

“you are just so beautiful like this,” hannibal cooed at you, taking his cock out. he was hard and you could see the precum on the tip. he readied you again with his three fingers, making sure you were stretched appropriately before he pressed the head of his cock against your hole. you nodded, telling him he could put it in.

hannibal slid his cock deep inside you, slowly, making you moan out and arch your back up. he had stretched you quite well, so the stretching brought by his cock was warm and welcomed. he bottomed out inside you, his balls against your wet taint. and then he started moving, lighting you on fire as he fucked into you. with each thrust you felt yourself unraveling again. his hands were exploring you as he praised how handsome you were, touching your chest and your sides and rubbing your clitoris, sending you over the edge another two times before he pulled his cock out and came on your tongue (at your request).

and of course, after the two of you cleaned up, he was sure to craft you the most delicious dessert.

#slashers #writing #asks #male reader #drabble #requests #slasher smut #hannibal lecter #nbc hannibal #hannibal x reader #hannibal x male reader #ftm reader #male ftm reader #afab dysphoria #hannibal #🚄 anon

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dominantslasherking · 1 year

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Slashers With Dominant Male S/o On Valentines Day

My Stories are meant for the much more mature audience, 18+.

Backstory: Takes place at a slashers asylum...but its valentines day

WARNINGS: WHOLESOME

You boredly sat at the table, your eyes closely slanted onto the plain white table, where multiple valentines cards were laid out right in front of you.

"Quiet! He noticed them!" Billy muttered to Stu, the ghost face killers intently watching with wide smiles on their faces. The other tables who were at the tables with the two scream killers had their attention to the table you sat at.

Norman bates was the first to speak up, "Do...you think he will like them?" Norman hummed out, his voice gentle but held no sense of shyness. "Of course he fucking likes them." Chucky aka Charles lee ray spoke up, ruffling his hand through his hair, he wasn't in his doll form currently, he took a drag of his cigarette which he had took from one of the nurses he murdered.

Bo Sinclair turned to his brother in annoyance, before speaking out to the rest of the killers, "Here comes the silent fuckers...----no offence." He mumbled the last part to Vincent who just stayed silent under his wax mask.

Both Jason Voorhes, and Michael Myers had finally arrived at the dinnng room , following after behind them was Thomas hewitt, with his sluggish and sleepy like movement.

All three of them had sat near [Name] With their eyes glued to the valentines cards directed to you, obviously they had already placed theirs there, so they could only wait.

"Thanks everyone." Your husky voice spoke up which was pleasing to everyone's ears, as they melted just by your words. The more demonic slashers had finally arrived, chains both on their neck and wrists were glowing a light blue color, it had restricted their powers.

Pinhead headed over to the table, curious about the silly cards which were in shapes of hearts, and gifted to you, he was pleasured with the panging jealousy inside his chest, which caused him a different sensation of pain: It greatly pleased him.

Freddy Kruger was muttered curses, while staring at pinheads--well pins. Freddy had resisted the urge to grab on of the pins and stick it into a guards eye...he has done that before, but he only ended up getting tackled and months in solitary for killing a guard. "Heyy~ Babee~ Did you read mine yet!" Freddy teasingly asked as his burnt features twisted up into a rigid smile.

"HEY- Freddy, why don't you take your burnt sausage dick and shove it up your ass!" Chucky cackled, while throwing a heart shaped chocolate at Freddy's head. "Say that again! Killer Carrot top! Once I get out of these shitty chains, guess whos dream I'm coming to??---YOURS BITCH!" Freddy insulted right back, but before he could say much more Hannibal had stopped their argument.

"Why don't you two, sit down, and let us enjoy our meals, I'm sure [Name] does not appreciate your tussle as he is trying to read the cards." Hannibal stated, while he stared down at his tasteless food.

Slowly you inhaled a deep breath, "What time...will we go?" You slowly asked, the asylum was getting boring fast, and you were ready to leave.

Pennywise had giggled on your words leaning down on the table, his eyes flashing gold as he suddenly slipped off his shackles once you had spoken. "Penny is always ready." The clown teased, ready to help the other slashers who had chains on.

Lifting up from your seat, you stared at the slashers at the other table, who were also standing.

It sounded like a swell plan...

#slashers x male reader #slasher x reader #valentines day #michael myers x male reader #jason vorhees x male reader #stu macher x male reader #billy loomis x male reader #chucky x male reader #pinhead x male reader #thomas hewitt x male reader #pennywise x male reader #hannibal x male reader #freddy kruger x male reader #bo sinclair x male reader #vincent sinclair x male reader

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bumblesimagines · 1 year

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❛ you should smile more. you have such a beautiful smile. ❜

❛ i'm only doing this because you asked me to. ❜

- Hannibal Lecter

❛ i'm only doing this because you asked me to. ❜

❛ you should smile more. you have such a beautiful smile. ❜

Pronouns for y/n: he/him/his

"I don't typically invite patients over but I've decided to make an exception for you." Dr. Lecter said as he led you through his house. To be frank, it felt unusual to see him with his sleeves rolled up and the top buttons of his shirt undone. He had always kept a pristine and proper look about him back in the office.

"You live here all by yourself?" You asked upon entering the absurdly large kitchen. Dr. Lecter stepped toward the island with ingredient lied out, motioning with his hand for you to get closer.

Answering your question with a nod, he pulled a cutting board closer to himself. "Do you like it?"

"Do you?" You swept your gaze over ingredients, turning toward him when he didn't respond. He stared at you, eyes almost studying yours before his lip quirked upward and he wordlessly nodded. "Then that's all that matters."

"Are you aware you often deflect questions about yourself?"

"Do I?" You tilted your head and listened to the amused exhale he released. Chuckling softly, you shrugged your shoulders. "I don't know why I do it. Guess that's why I see you."

"You should smile more. You have such a beautiful smile." He complimented softly, reaching for some vegetables and beginning to cut them into small pieces. You felt your skin flush lightly and hummed, watching him work.

"Would you like to give it a try?" He asked, taking a step back and motioning toward the board. You took his spot, wrapping your fingers over handle of the knife. You stared at it for a moment, catching your reflection in the wet blade.

"(Y/N)?"

Blinking out of it, you cleared your throat and grabbed a new vegetable, hesitantly hovering the knife over it. Dr. Lecter chuckled behind you and moved, pressing his chest to your back and placing his hands over yours.

"You've never cut vegetables before?"

"I wouldn't say I'm the best cook. I'm only doing this because you asked me to."

"Then I'll teach you."

#x reader #x you #x y/n #x male reader #hannibal lector x reader #hannibal x you #hannibal x male reader #hannibal x reader #hannibal #hannibal show #hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x male reader #hannibal lecter x you

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lockedcemetary · 3 months

Text

The Birth of Venus

a/n: this is probably bad, wrote it at 1 am and have never written before and doubt anyone will even see this. written with male/ gender neutral reader in mind but i don’t think i mentioned sex or gender at all, if anyone does see this and likes it or has feedback, tell me!

also not proofread lol

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hannibal who asks you to be his muse for a nude portrait. He presents this request as politely and professionally as possible, to hide his true intentions. Hannibal who knows damn well he wouldn’t need a reference to properly etch your figure onto parchment, he’s already done it dozens of times.

You, being none the wiser, agree. Albeit a bit hesitantly, but you agree nonetheless. fast forward to the arranged date and time, he has unclothe yourself in his bathroom that’s attached to the master bedroom, for your comfort, he explains. he waits patiently with his sketchbook in hand, legs crossed away from your view. you pay no attention to his body language, but anyone who was even slightly educated on seeing the signs would be able to deduce that he was enjoying the situation in another light.

you exit the bathroom, a towel draped over yourself. you stand a bit over a yard away from him, unsure of what to do with yourself. he assures you that there is no need to be nervous, it’s just you and him, no danger or judgement. this eases you slightly, though he can tell you’re still tense.

he instructs you to place the towel on the desk behind you, and you follow. you turn back to him to see him already looking at you, is that desire in his eyes? Of course not, why would that be the case? he lets his eyes rake across you, taking in small details that he mentally stores away. he realizes he’s staring, and staring is rude, so he pulls his eyes back to his paper. this is when he begins his rough sketch, he will go in and clean everything up later. when he is happy with his sketch, finishing the outline with only a few stolen glances of the beauty in front of him, he looks back up. you’re looking at him, watching his hands in particular. from this angle you can make out the rough shape of yourself, it makes you blush a bit as you realize just the situation you remain in. he sees the pink dusting your cheeks and neck, but doesn’t comment on it. he simply stares.

he drags his line of sight onto the page once more, adding finer details as the minutes pass. he can feel it against his thigh now, but he dare not speak of it or even acknowledge it. this has never been a problem when it was just him, though he knew it would arise when you were standing in front of him as his hand graced the page. he flicks his eyes up for only a second, to regain his senses. the image was starting to take shape now. you could see it, and you recognized it? it was you, in the place of Venus in the renaissance painting The Birth of Venus by Sandro Botticelli.

you couldn’t make out the faces of the other three people in the image, but that wasn’t important. what was important was that Hannibal had led you here, just to simply take in your grace. you hadn’t known it, but this wasn’t simply a ploy to get you undressed in front of him, even if that was part of it. as elegant and chaste as hannibal likes to pretend he is. but he chose to memorialize you in the place of venus, the goddess of love, beauty, and sex. (atleast those are the motifs that apply here)

when he presented the image to you, your eyes widened on instinct. and you took a step forward to take the sketchbook from his hands and get a better look of it yourself, a better look of you, i suppose. Hannibal took note of the decreased proximity, and let his eyes wander. oh if only you knew how often you flitted about his mind. it’d end him, like you inevitably would.

________________________________

i was listening to the song Black Beauty by Lana Del Rey while writing this btw, good song.

#hannibal #hannibal nbc #hannibal x reader #hannibal x gn reader #hannibal x male reader #i would like to kiss mads mikkelsen #mwah kissy kissy

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defectivevillain · 6 months

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this broken design, ch16

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

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

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

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

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

read from the beginning here.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

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

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

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

Stay awake, says a whisper itching at your skin.

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

Stay awake.

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

Stay alive.

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

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

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

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

“See?” Stay awake. Stay alive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I can handle it,” you assure him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1. Dracula by Bram Stoker

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

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

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

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

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

And now… Act 1 of this story is complete!

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

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

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

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

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

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