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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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honeybeezgobzzzzz · 6 months

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🗡️ Something Dread, Something Red: Chapter Two

Something Dread, Something Red: Stuck in a proposal to a Marine Commodore, you escape minutes before your wedding in one last ditch effort to avoid getting married to a tyrant. Barely making it to the port of your town, you stumble across a ship just starting to leave and beg for passage off the island. You fail to notice that the people you beg for help, are pirates.

Warnings: Wounds, Blood.

To Note: “Red Haired” Shanks x FemReader

Word Count: ~2.8k

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Loose curls of lavender hung around your face while you crouched behind a bush in the sprawling grounds of the Bonn Manor. Your scalp ached terribly, irritated from the way you had ripped your heavy and extravagant veil from your head, and your forearms stung from the way you clawed yourself free from the hawthorn tree you’d jumped into to escape your balcony. You had no idea if anyone had noticed your absence from your room, but you were treating your situation as if they already knew you’d fled.

Each and every move you made to escape the manor grounds had to be calculated and exact. Any mistake would result in something far worse than death. As impulsive as this escape was, you had plenty of prior attempts to learn from your past mistakes. Naiveté had you running straight for the front gates every time, and right into the very people you’d been trying to escape from. You hadn’t learned then, but you knew better now.

There was a hidden side entrance used by the staff and vendors. Mother had never liked to see them coming and going, so they had a separate entrance. It wasn’t something you’d been schooled on or even told, but after watching and observing, you’d eventually figured out that they had to enter and leave somewhere. That somewhere was where you were headed.

You were fairly sure it was in a thick and dense part of the eastern grounds, one that was not nearly as meticulously maintained. No one would expect you to suddenly change your fleeing methods, certainly dressed like this. Escaping in your wedding dress was not just difficult, it was nearly impossible! The lace kept getting snagged on branches and bushes, and the built in petticoat made the skirt wide.

Tearing your sleeve away from a branch that had caught the delicate lace, you clutched your arms to your chest and moved forwards again. Bunching the skirt of your dress in your hands, your feet flew over smooth cobbles in hurried steps. With the coming and goings of merchant carts, surely there was someway you could sneak into one and hitch a ride into town. There would be no way you could outrun your mother’s men or the marines on foot.

Deciding to follow the path you were on, you sprinted as fast as you could in your dress and focused on your struggled breathing. It’d never been this hard to breathe before, but you’d also never felt such compounding fear and adrenaline within your body before. Pausing in place as your lungs burned viciously, you pressed your hand against your chest. You wanted to take a break, you needed one! But you didn’t have the time.

“Keep going,” You told yourself. “Just— Just keep going.” Sinking your hand into the bark of the chestnut tree, you pushed away from it and continued moving. The path that cut through the woods wound back towards the manor, but rather than risking being seen, you took a short cut through the dense forest. The fallen chestnuts hurt to stepped on and you had to bite your lip to stop from crying out every time you stepped on one. Swerving around a tree trunk you skidded to a stop and threw yourself backwards at seeing a pair of manservants carrying some crates.

Landing on your back, you slapped your hands over your mouth the moment you felt a searing sharp pain erupt in your shoulder. Something had dug into your skin, sharp and with a hot flash that left you wanting to howl. You swallowed what would have been a devastatingly high pitched scream and felt the release of tears in the corner of your eyes. Masculine voices came and passed, and with clenched teeth you rolled onto your side before awkwardly getting to your feet. While you pulled yourself together, from behind you came the ringing of the bell.

“Oh gods,” You whimpered to yourself, your mother would be on a war path now. A newfound tremble ran through your body, your entire body shaking as you hurried on. Your feet were happy the moment they returned to cobbles, and with a bit of timing and a great amount of luck, you managed to squirrel yourself away in a cart full of old drapes your mother had replaced in anticipation for the wedding. Your wedding dress actually helped you blend right in. With some of the drapery covering your face and hair, you held your breath and waited to either be discovered or overlooked. It really couldn’t be this easy to slip from the manor, could it?

Apparently it was, because not two minutes passed before the cart was harnessed to a pair of horses and started moving. The road was bumpy, and your corset repeatedly pressed into place that already hurt and were sore, but you forced yourself to remain quiet and just listen. Your mother had made a deal with the merchant who stitched her drapes, offering the luxurious fabric back in addition to the Berry it cost for the new ones. So it was safe to say that you were headed for the drapery shop.

Slumping back into the piled drapes, you had time to think about what you were going next. You had a very slim chance of getting off the Bonn manor lands you hadn’t spent a lot of time thinking what you would do afterwards. Kuri Island is an island. You had nowhere to run on solid ground. The best option you had to leave would be passage off Kuri Island, however that may come. Begging most likely. Ships in the harbor usually departed the harbor based on the tide, which was soon.

The problem was that the marines in the town were most likely notified of your fleeing and would be on the lookout for you. You couldn’t be caught, not now. Get to the harbor. Get passage off Kuri Island before you got caught. Beg if you have to. Your heart wasn’t trying to beat out of your chest anymore, but it was still fast from the adrenaline running through your veins. Holding your hands against your chest, you listened to the increase in sounds as the cart drew closer and closer to the village.

You had never heard sounds this beautiful, of chattering people, laughing children, the ocean so loud. It was all so carefree, a large jump from the ridged and structured life you grew up knowing and living. No matter how brief this breath of fresh air was, you were addicted and never wanted to live a single hour trapped like how you’d grown up.

With determination filling you, you dragged the drape you used to cover your self off your body and rolled. Leg’s tangling in the skirts of your partially ripped dress, you fell off the end of the cart and hit the ground hard with an undignified grunt. For several moments you lay on the cobbled street, moaning as hard wire dug into your ribs. Shifting on your side, you propped yourself up with your forearm and pushed some fallen hair out of your eyes.

You had landed in some back alley street, houses and little shops dotting the sides. It was nothing special, no crystal embedded fixtures, no silk or satin fabrics hanging in windows, just simple wood and stone. Your eyes shifted as something caught your attention, and you found yourself staring into the eyes of a young girl whose mouth was dropped open.

“You wouldn’t happen to know what direction the harbor is, do you?” You asked, hauling your aching body to your feet and brushing out the skirt of your dress. She pointed in the direction and you gave her a brief curtsey before darting off in that direction. The warm cobbles beneath your feet did very little to ease the sting in your feet, but a certain comfort bloomed in your chest just from being in the town. Freedom was such a beautiful thing, wasn’t it! Following the direction you’d been pointed, you found yourself on the crest of a hill and was given the perfect view of the harbor, ships and all.

The harbor wasn’t big, but it certainly bustled with early morning activity as ships took advantage of the outgoing tide. Exports of chestnut goods and lace were the most populous of goods loaded onto the ships, but you also knew that other local crafts were added to the count of exports on Kuri Island. There were a few other ships you saw, not bearing the usual merchant vessel markings, dotting the harbor. Surely one of them would agree to give you passage. Your hand went to the necklace hanging for your neck. It wasn’t an antique, but it was expensive and valuable. Surely you’d be able to trade it for passage away from Kuri Island.

Grabbing onto the skirts of your dress, you hauled the heavy material up and ran forwards, hope fueling your heart rather than fear. Running by the little shops and houses, you couldn’t help but look at everything and nothing at once. Houses that weren’t immaculate in every detail, but clearly lived in, mini gardens with blooming flowers that were clearly well loved, even the stoops and cobbles were swept and clean! These people clearly just lived, rather than put on a perfect production day after day. You wanted to live this spontaneity every moment you had free.

Slowing down so you didn’t trip over your own feet, you peered down a fork in the road wondering which path to take. For all you knew, one curved off and lead away from the harbor, and the other provided more choices you’d have to consider. A shout came from behind you and a lightning bolt of fear renewed the petrifying fear that had gripped you so tight only ten minutes earlier. Glancing behind you, your eyes were met with the sight of marines pointing at you.

A strangled noise of panic caught in your throat and you made a split decision to head right, hoping that you hadn’t picked the wrong road. This road wasn’t as nice as the ones you had previous been traveling down, but it was still clean. Just darker. Like echoing your situation, the road twisted and turned with uncertainty, leading you along as continued shouts from behind fueled your legs. You had more to swerve around on this road, boxes, stacked crates, jugs… narrowly saving yourself from crashing into a cart half on the curb, you let out a cry of frustration when the skirt of your dress caught on a rusted knob.

Whipping around, you harshly yanked on the delicate fabric of your dress to free yourself. How could it be so delicate yet hold you captive with such determination!? The marines were closing in on you now, and that made you tug harder. They were shouting at you to stop, to come with them, to stay put. But you couldn’t, not when you had finally breathed a breathe of air that was your own. To hell with them. Snatching a piece of wood from the cart, you threw it at the marines. It smacked one right in the chest and the marine’s arms cartwheeled, knocking into the other beside him. Feeling your dress finally give beneath the rusted knob holding you in place, you turned and continued to run, being more mindful of where your dress flowed.

Blasted thing!

This was the last time you were ever going to wear such an ostentatious gown. Period. You just had to get away of course. That fueled your body with energy once more despite the harsh burning in your chest and the legs beneath you that felt like they were turning into the dessert jelly your mother occasionally consumed. Stumbling out of the alley, you grappled onto the nearby building to stop yourself from all but collapsing. Glancing behind you, you didn’t see any of the marines on your trail. Better find a ship with a crew before they found you again.

Pushing away from the building, you stumbled forwards and with wild eyes looked to the remaining ships harbored. You saw several ships bearing the flag of the Bonn Chestnut Trade Company, and decided against taking the risk of boarding one. There was a pretty good chance that the ship would just turn around and deliver your right into the strict and very livid arms of your mother. So your feet scampered across the wood while your eyes strained to see who owned the next ship. So many Bonn Chestnut Trade Company vessels. Further panic broiled within your veins and your fingers clenched the skirts of your dress harder.

“Come on, come on, come on,” You whimpered, frustrated by the lack of ships not affiliated with your family. Did the Bonn’s own the entire quadrant of sea!? Passing a few more trade ships, your hopes were raised for but a few brief moments when you saw ships not affiliated with your family. But no one was around the docks and some ships were already departing!

Dodging a stack of crates, you grimaced as your stinging feet came into contact with the salt water that splashed onto the docks from the ocean. But that water wasn’t only causing you pain, it also soaked into the skirt and train of your dress, weighing it down and oppressing you with more weight to carry in your escape. Ship after ship, you grew more and more fearful that you wouldn’t be able to find one that could give you safe passage. With your hope beginning to dwindle, you scurried around the curve in the dock where the dock master resided and came to a stop.

Not that far away was a large ship with men carrying crates and other wrapped goods onto the deck. It was the only ship you could see not affiliated with your family and clearly they were about to head out to sea. Eyes frantically searching for wherever was in charge, they landed on a red haired man that appeared to be directing the men on where the goods were to be placed. So you rushed up to him in complete and utter desperation, not caring how unladylike you appeared.

“You are leaving Kuri Island?” You questioned with straightforwardness. The man blinked at you in surprise , as you had appeared out of nowhere, and your outfit… clearly you were a bride. A very beautiful and elegant one at that. Should you not be at your wedding rather than at the dirty docks?

“Yes, we are leaving momentarily, madam,” Shanks supplied to you, wondering what you wanted.

“Take me with you,” You demanded outright, not bothering with any further pleasantries or niceties. “Please, I can pay with this,” Your fingers went to the necklace hanging around your throat. “I just need to leave this island immediately.”

The others on Shank’s crew had momentarily stopped resupplying the ship, watching the events unfolding between you and their captan. Shanks shook his head at you, knowing the seas and his ship were no place for a lady such as you.

“My lady, the seas are much too rough for the likes of you and we are no marines,” He didn’t miss the way you flinched at the mention of the marines, but carried on. “It’s too dangerous and given your attire, I think you are missing your wedding.” Shanks eyes glossed over the ripped delicate lace, you had made a get effort to get here. “It would be best if you returned to your family and talk things out with them before making a rash decision like this.”

“This has nothing to do with rashness!” You argued back with fire. “I need to leave now! Please!! If I don’t—” Something caught your eyes over the red haired mans shoulder and you froze, your entire body filing with renewed fear as you whimpered. Oh gods, he came after you! Thomas Collins had left the alter to chase after his fleeing bride, flanked by a multitude of white coated marines. A squeal of fear emerged from your throat and raw terror bloomed in your eyes. Shanks saw it all, the tremors in your body, terror in your eyes. Something scared you senseless. A quick glance over his shoulder rendered a better understanding. A livid marine dressed in his whites, most likely the groom you’d left at the alter. He made a decision in that moment.

Bending down slightly, Shanks dipped his remaining arm around your impossibly thin waist and hefted you up onto his shoulder. Letting out a gasp, your fingers dug into the slightly coarse material of his back while you were carried off. Was he actually helping you!? Perhaps he was! Lifting your head up, you saw Thomas shouting at his men while his eyes trained on you.

“Men!” Shanks called, effortlessly carrying you over his shoulder. “Change of plans, it appears we are bride-napping this morning! Pull the anchor and set the sails!”

Date Published: 11/16/23

Last Edit: 11/16/23

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#one piece shanks #one piece #shanks x you #shanks x reader #shanks x y/n #red haired shanks

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