#Hannibal reader insert

[marksbear2]

Soft dom Hannibal Lecter and crybaby mreader where he teach reader how to ride him 🙂‍↕️🏃‍♂️‍➡️🏃‍♂️‍➡️

HANNIBAL LECTER X CRYBABY MALE READER

⚠️Warnings- Soft dom Hannibal, talking through it, teaching, guiding, crying- and crying kink, shy reader. Naive/ Virgin reader. And etc ⚠️

Soft but muffled moaning and choked sobs could be heard inside of Doctor’s Lecter office. You were whimpering softly as Hannibal stared at he looking down at you in between his legs with your face all puffy and wet from crying as you had your lips wrapped around Hannibal’s cock.

Hannibal had his hand laying gently on your head but had a firm grip. You eyes still had tears falling from it from earlier.

You were crying and whining earlier as he was fingering you and stretching you out prepping for his cock.

Once he had decided that you were prepped enough he told you. “Isn’t it only fair that you give me something back?” 

That’s how you both ended it up now. Hannibal staring down at you while you trying the best of your ability to give him a blowjob.

You squirmed under his eyes, but tried to ignore his gaze. “Your teeth is grazing me. Relax. Stop thinking so hard.” Hannibal said as he used his free hand to pull you off his cock before moving his thumb inside your mouth pressing it against your tongue.

Hannibal stared down into your mouth for a few more seconds before pulling his hand away and grabbing your jaw guiding your mouth down on his cock. 

“Teeth, watch your teeth.” Hannibal said in a soft but firm tone. You slowly do as you said as you moved your tongue around his cock. 

Hannibal hands stayed where they were guiding you up and down on his cock. 

Your face was flustered as tears still went down as Hannibal cupping your cheeks, he could feel his own cock moving and moving the side of your cheeks with his cock making your mouth full.

With his large hands guiding your head, you let him do all the work while you just moved your tongue around.

Hannibal gently pushed your head away from his cock and adjust the way he’s sitting in the chair tapping his knee. You quickly scramble into his lap and wrapped your arms around his shoulders. Hannibal puts his firm large hand on your hips holding you still as he used his free hand for hold and angle his large wet cock to your hole.

You were somewhat unaware, as he distracted you with comforting praises and words of affection.

“Take a deep breath for me darling.” Hannibal said, you do as he says before letting out a sharp gasp as you felt his cock slowly enter your walls.

“You can take it can’t you? Don’t want to disappoint me now would we?” Hannibal mused watching your face show many expression with uncertainty, uncomfortable and most of all pleasure. “We’re doing something more your pace.” Hannibal said as he raised you up and down on his cock.

“Shh, shh, your doing such an amazing job taking me.” Hannibal whispered against your ear as he began to move your body up down like an toy.

As you cried and whimpered softly Hannibal pressed his mouth against your ear soothing you with an hum.

His cock moving deeper and deeper inside of you as his large hands held you in a firm but gentle grip.

“Such a precious little thing…” 

”I would hate to ruin you…”

THE END

[cece693]

ABSENCE MAKES THE BEAST DESPERATE

pairing: hannibal lecter x male reader synopsis: You needed to attend a work conference, simple right? WRONG. Not even minutes after the front door closed, your husband, Hannibal, feels your absence and becomes dramatic as a result.

There are two kinds of silence in the Lecter home.

The first is cultivated: classical music drifting like smoke through the air, a simmering reduction whispering from the stovetop, knives kissing wood in rhythmic, reverent ceremony. This silence is artful. Composed. It is the kind Hannibal curates with intention, with care. He thrives in it. Polishes it like fine crystal.

The second silence is different.

It is not designed, but inflicted—a yawning, unbearable quiet that expands through the halls like a scream locked in its own ribcage. It lives in the empty chair at the dining table. In the untouched piano keys gathering dust. In the left side of the bed, cold and undisturbed. It lives in Hannibal, now hollowed and echoing in your absence.

The door had barely closed behind you when the world tilted off its axis. The house, too attuned to its occupants, seemed to sag inward. Hannibal noted the difference instantly: the walls no longer vibrated with your soft humming, no idle footsteps wandered through the rooms, no shared laughter tucked itself into corners. Even the kitchen—once the heart of their evenings—felt abandoned.

No half-drunk coffee cooling on the counter.

No spare coat hung by the door.

Just silence.

He inhaled deeply, as if scent might restore what was lost, but the air held nothing. And that absence, that hollowness where you had been, stirred something in him that felt uncomfortably close to panic.

Within the first hour of your departure, Hannibal was in your closet. His fingers ghosted over your jackets like a priest thumbing rosary beads, desperate for salvation. Every stitch, every crease, smelled like you. When he pressed your favorite sweater to his face, the sigh that escaped him was almost obscene in its hunger.

He did not eat dinner that night.

Of course, he prepared it—he still had his rituals. A perfect cut of lamb, rosemary crushed slowly between thumb and forefinger, wine decanted and left to breathe. But it was a hollow performance, a stage set with no actor, no audience. He plated two servings by habit, then stared at the second one like it was a tombstone.

You weren’t there. So Hannibal didn’t eat.

Instead, he sat in your chair by the fire, wearing your old university sweatshirt—the one with sleeves too long, the fabric faded from years of devotion. It clashed horrendously with his pressed trousers and house slippers, but he wore it like armor. Or mourning garb. He curled into it, burying his nose in the collar like a creature trying to remember spring.

Time passed, but it no longer had meaning.

He watched the clock more than he read. Each second ticked like a needle stitching your absence deeper into his chest. It was grotesque, this longing—an ache so profound it made him nauseous. He, who had once held human hearts in his palms with surgical precision, found himself unraveling over the shape of your absence.

By the second night, Hannibal had abandoned even pretense.

He moved your pillow to his side of the bed, curled around it like a beast mourning a lost mate. One of your hoodies joined the growing collection of garments strewn across his lap and shoulders like sacred relics. He tucked your scarf into his collar and dabbed your cologne beneath his ears.

It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Only your return could reanimate him.

And you were due back tonight.

Hannibal had tracked your itinerary to the second—your flight, your drive from the airport, the weather conditions that might delay you. So when your car finally turned onto the long driveway and the lock clicked in the door, he was already there.

No warning. No restraint.

He collided with you like a tidal wave breaking against rock—desperate, powerful, breathless. His arms wrapped around you tightly, face pressed into the crook of your neck as though trying to merge into your skin. The inhale he took was ragged, the exhale like the gasp of a drowning man finding shore.

“You’re here,” he murmured, voice wet with relief. “You’re here.”

You set your bag down, causing Hannibal to cling to you tighter, the fine bones of his hands shaking slightly against your back.

“I wore your clothes,” he confessed into your skin, the words shamefully intimate. “I steeped your tea too long. I slept on your side of the bed. I didn’t eat. I—” he paused, almost wincing— “I wore your bathrobe to the mailbox. The neighbors saw.”

You pulled back, startled. “You what?”

“Your scent,” he said in a hushed, reverent voice. “It lives in the seams. I needed to feel you. You left me to rot in a mausoleum of silence. And for what? Business meetings?”

You exhaled an incredulous laugh. “It was a medical conference, Hannibal.”

“Worse.”

His hands slid down to your waist, refusing to let go. He was actually trembling a little. You’d seen Hannibal after surgeries, after murders, after long opera nights—never shaken. Never soft like this. “I’ve decided,” he said gravely. “You are no longer allowed to work.”

“Excuse me?”

“You will stay home. With me. I will provide for us. For the rest of our lives.”

“Hannibal—”

“I refuse to go another night without the sound of your breathing beside me. I couldn’t even sleep.” He pulled back slightly, eyes gleaming, a faint flush of something almost boyish in his cheeks. “I was like Orpheus in the underworld, except you didn’t look back.”

You laughed, incredulous. “You’re comparing a medical conference in Chicago to the descent into the underworld?”

“Yes,” he said, without hesitation.

And you kissed him—because how could you not? Because there was something unhinged and heartbreaking and utterly beautiful in the way he grieved you as if you’d died. The way your absence had peeled back his polished veneer and revealed a man undone.

He melted into the kiss like a starving thing, a low sound escaping his throat, hands tangling in your coat as if anchoring himself to life. You pulled back only slightly, brushing his hair behind one ear.

“Oh, my poor, miserable cannibal.”

[shegatsby]

Hello,

could you please write a Hannibal one-shot, where he and the reader are on their honeymoon in Florence. In the middle of a steamy moment, Jack calls her, due to an emergancy FBI case, but Hannibal just smashes the phone?(with smut?)

A/N: Hi guys!!! I am here to serve the fandom! Enjoy.

Warnings: SMUT! SMUT IN PUBLIC! UNPROTECTED SEX! WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT FOLKS! POSSESSIVE HANNIBAL!

Y/N woke up to a beautiful summer day in Florence. The bed was in a complete mess but she and her husband didn't mind. Yes, she got married to the man of her dreams a week ago and he booked a cozy villa to show her around in Florence, the city he adored. She has never been here before so it was an exciting adventure. Hannibal was really enjoying being a provider, taking care of his wife, making sure she got everything she needed and desired, he loved to hear her laugh and see her beautiful smile. If she was happy he was happy that was the dynamic. Ever since they got here they could only go out on a yacht trip and visited Uffizi Gallery, other days they just couldn't keep their hands off of each other. Of course when they were dating they often had sex but after marriage Hannibal's desire grew more and more. Now that she was his completely he had this primal urge to be a round her all the time, he never knew he could be into physcial touch this much, because before her Hannibal was a cold hearted and colculated man in his previous relationships but at the moment he was preparing breakfast for her, humming a soft tune.

As he was about to go upstairs and wake her up she walked into the garden, the table was by the pool, one could smell the fresh flowers and sweet fruit in the air, Hannibal was once again in awe of her, she was wearing a white milkmaid dress, her hair wet from the shower, just her natural beauty took his breath every time. ''Morning gorgeours.'' he called for her, she smiled as she walked to the table, he had his beige polo shirt and shorts, he got a nice tan. ''Morning honey.'' she kissed him and sat, ''I already ate,'' he began but when he saw her answering her emails on the phone he cleared his throat to geth her attention, he could be like a toddler sometimes. ''Oh?''

''Come here darling.'' he said calmly, she didn't understand but stood up and put her phone on the glass table, Hannibal sat and patted his lap, ''I want to feed you myself.'' he explained shortly. She knew Hannibal had interesting fantasies but this one was knew. ''Okay.'' she blushed shyly which earned a smirk from him. ''Blushing like a maiden are you?'' he teased her, she rolled her eyes.

Hannibal put some botter on a toasted bread and honey on top, ''Open wide love.'' she opened her mouth, bit the toast, ''Hmm, really good.'' she said, ''I know what you like, love.'' he rubbed his nose on her cheek, as he fed her Y/N could feel his hardening member, just to give him hard time she replaced herself on his lap, pretending like she couldn't find the right pesition and she heard his inhale, ''Darling..'' he warned, ''I would like to feed you first and then fuck you till you see stars but food first.'' he was a man of his word and she was counting on it.

''But I'm full.'' she said looking under her eyes, ''Are you now?'' his hand moved inside the dress finding her already soaking wet cunt. ''Oh,'' he said as soon as his fingers made contact, ''What have I found here...'' he started to gently rub her, she opened her legs so that he could have an easy access, ''So eager huh? Tell me how much you want my fingers inside you.''

She loved these moments were he was demanding and direct, ''Please Hannibal, I want your fingers in me, fill me up.'' and they started kissing as he slowly penetrated in her with his fingers, since she was soaking he could finger her easily. Her back was pressing against his chest and he broke the kiss, made her straddel him, now she was wide open, her feet couldn't reach the ground. Her hands wrapped around his neck, with his other hand he was rubbing her ass, giving few slaps which made her yelp. ''Hannibal..'' she moaned his name between kisses, she could feel herself getting closer and closer, her juice dripping down on his shorts, he started to kiss and bite her jaw line, her neck as his finger got faster, ''Yes darling,'' he encouraged her, ''just like that..'' his fingers were hitting a soft spot in her which made her shake her legs, he knew she was close. As they were wrapped in this moment her phone started to ring, which distracted her. ''Fuck.'' she huffed under her breath and reached to get her phone, ''Who is it?'' Hannibal said, clealry annoyed, ''Jack, it must be urgent otherwise he wouldn't call.'' Before she could answer Hannibal got her phone, smashed it against the glass table, thankfully the table didn't break but her phone was destroyed. Y7N had never seen him like this, withouth a word he threy everything away on the table and stood up, laid her on her back and opened her legs, the coolnes of the table made her shiver but deep down she knew what was the reason, she was turned on by her husband, how dominant and manly he was... He pulled down his wet shorts, and without a warning entered her slick folds. They both moaned deeply, ''My wife..'' he said in a growl. He pushed up her hands and held her wrists with one hand, they were literally in public, if any of their neighbors decided to look out the window they could see but it turned Hannibal even more. He wanted everyone to know that she as his. He was brutal with his strokes, she was already sore from last night but he didn't take, he knew she could take it. ''Good girl..'' he said making eye contact, with his free hand he slaped her face, ''Taking my cock so well. Your pussy is mine.'' his words made her climax, her legs shaking again but this time she was in atrance, he was right she was seeing stars. Hannibal followed after few deep strokes and he came in her. He leaned in to kiss her forehead, ''Baby,'' he kissed her cheek and then her lips, ''I want you to have my children.'' he confessed, he had the idea ever since he saw her for the first time, ''Yes,'' she said out of breath, ''Yes Hannibal.'' she caged his plump lips in apassionate kiss.

[cyrki]

Hannibal x Reader

...who refuses to eat after finding out what animal the meat they're being served actually comes from.

CW: Force-feeding, captivity, slight (unintentional, can be seen platonically) Hannigram pairing

You haven't always been aware of it, but it eventually grew to be extremely obvious—Incredibly, eating had become a rather gruesome task. Just gazing at the food made your stomach churn and following each bite was a dreadful feeling of repulsion. The once innocent and innate act of eating exempt you from being a victim. Reversely, it made YOU the culprit, to a considerable extent.

—

You knew it.

Each swallowed mouthful was a new lump in your throat.

Hannibal Lecter was a rather cunning murderer; You were his, and apparently Will's, hapless little victim.

—

You couldn't quite comprehend the truth. To be fair, it was indigestible, both literally and metaphorically. Being held captive was one thing, but human flesh and organs existing to be the sole source of your intricate meals was just... bewildering.

"Y/N." Hannibal spoke, in his usual monotone tone of voice. He glanced at your almost untouched plate of food before averting his gaze back at you, in a slightly demanding manner.

"I cannot help but make note of your forbearance." He remarked, putting his carefully crafted metal fork down and intertwining his slender fingers together.

Truly, his statements were nothing more than politely-worded and conscientiously constructed commands. You knew him well enough to be able to recognise them with ease.

"I'm sorry." A mere apology was all you could utter before tentatively picking up your cutlery and eating.

—

Ever since that night, Hannibal has seemingly noticed the changes in your eating patterns. How you ate less and less, eyeing him guiltily, hoping he wouldn't say anything regarding the matter. Thankfully, you were rather... Obedient.

He couldn't, however, help but wonder what exactly gave rise to this peculiar behaviour. At first, he attributed it to unwellness. As displeased as it made him, he understood that being held captive can have quite the toll on one's mental well-being. Be that as it may, your otherwise passive and compliant attitude disproved his theory.

Perhaps it was your way of rebelling, almost slightly adorable. Almost.

Eventually, he figured it out—How absent-minded you were, under the ridiculous belief that he was unaware of the unquantifiable guilt that washed through you with each bite. Of course, he couldn't allow this unacceptable habit of yours to continue.

—

Friday, evening

Given the day, the manhunter invited Will over for dinner. Naturally, you were to be present at the table.

You barely touched the meat contents of your intricately cooked lunch. When inquired, you excused yourself with a rather simple and straightforward lie.

"I'm not in the mood for meat."

In that moment, you could swear Hannibal's lips curved upward to a knowing smile. Before you could even take a mental photograph, he adopted his characteristic stoic expression.

Something was off.

He was looking at you the way a hedonist seeks sensation.

The way a dog waits for a piece of meat.

The way a spider methodically and patiently ceases for the perfect moment to ambush its helpless prey.

Will was already sat at the dinner table when you came down from the attic. His eyes were full of disdain. Pity; Warning you of whatever was to come.

The two men were conversing, but you could barely make out what they were saying, due to their continuous use of indiscernible metaphors, as if they were codifying the contents of their dialogue.

The main dish; "Braised Roast" meat baked in clay with marrow, and lady apples on the side.

You inhaled deeply, grasping your shiny fork so hard your knuckles adopted a snow-white shade.

"What are we waiting for?" Hannibal smiled, his deep brown eyes initially landing on Will before eventually finding their way to you, where they lingered for a bit longer than they should've.

You felt an uncanny pressure watching both of them clear their plates. Each moment he stopped to chew he meticulously used to eye you.

"It's unfortunate you're not eating." The psychiatrist exclaimed, obviously referring to you and how your food remained unconsumed. You awkwardly chuckled - Approximately a billion excuses ought to travel to your lips, yet each and every single one got stuck in your throat.

"You know I cannot condone this behaviour any longer; It truly pains me to see you abstain from eating everything I cook." He berated you with plastered concerns. Will simply nodded, only looking at you from the corner of his eyes. Hannibal was now ogling at you and impatiently waiting. It was made clear that you expected to finish everything on your plate.

Yet you didn't. You just gawked at the contents in front of you intently, trembling.

"That's no good. I was hoping not to get my hands dirty tonight." Hannibal sighed as he got up from his seat. Your grasp on your chair only tightened, your brows knit together with uncertainty and untainted fear as he approached you.

His large hands abruptly grabbed both of your wrists before aggressively pinning them down on the wooden armrests of the chair you were sat on. You winced in pain for no longer than a second, at which he he unlocked his jaw to speak once more.

"Do not struggle. There is no need to make things harder than they already have presented themselves to be." He calmly requested as he applied more pressure before eyeballing Will, who consequently got up from his seat and placed his own colder hands right where Hannibal's previously were, just long enough for Hannibal to skillfully tie rope around all your limbs.

With both his hands now free, he could now do as he pleased. His left hand violently held your chin up, his perfectly round fingernail digging in your soft cheeks deep enough to leave a temporary mark, while his right picked up your fork.

He stabbed it in the meat, before bringing it centimeters away from your lips.

"Open up." He ordered. You stubbornly kept your mouth shut.

"...or don't." He painfully opened your teeth, forcing the food down your throat before making you chew and swallow. A horrifying sensation washed over you as you felt the food travel down to your previously empty stomach.

"There. It's not that bad, is it?" He smiled as he dug in the plate. Your eyes began to well up as he continued to force-feed you what was once a human-being.

About halfway through, you felt everything climbing back up your esophagus - However, gagging was seemingly not permitted. If anything, it encouraged him to continue.

And just when you thought it was coming to an end, when there was not a single crumb left, he excused himself only to bring back another plate just as full of tender meat.

Your stomach was very obnoxiously full by that point, and Hannibal was well accustomed to that. You were being reprimanded, after all. Punishments shall not lack the aspect of pain, or else they're not effective. All you could do was pathetically plead for him to stop between each excruciating mouthful that was forced down your throat, which he appeared to find rather irritable.

He left just enough space in between each bit to allow you to pitifully gasp for oxygen. You were long out of tears, but the pleading look in your eyes was more than enough to satiate Hannibal.

Your stomach grew to be rock-hard and bloated, as it excruciatingly pressed against your pants, the buttons of which were barely holding up against your full gut. Once you were finally done, Hannibal gently dragged his thumb against it, gingerly enough to soothe you yet firm enough to cause you pain. He unbuttoned the top button of your pants, giving you a very short-lived feeling of serenity.

"I forbid you from going to bed hungry ever again. Understood?" He instructed, untying the ropes that constrained you before placing a tender kiss on the top of your head.

[marshmellowjay]

I need a fanfic where for once reader is the big scary burly bear like man with a heart of pure gold..could never hurt a fly and would cry if he did.

I'm sure it would be a funny situation where characters meet reader and are like-

"HOLY SHIT- HE COULD SNAP ME IN HALF"

only for seconds later to be like

"oh- no wait he just cried over a lady bug he accidentally stepped on-"

(repost and comment plz)

[glimmerfics]

Play as Dr. Hannibal Lecter's new patient in this Choose-Your-Own-Adventure!

There's no question that he's one-of-a-kind. But, a small piece of advice? Try not to be rude…or too entertaining.

📖 Episode 1 of 2 🎮 interactive fanfic "The Doctor Is In" by RhodaDendron 🔗 link to play: https://glimmerfics.com/stories/11e32047-the-doctor-is-in

[boy-of-death]

I want to thank all the girls and the gays that are obsessed with shows that ended 10 years ago and still write about it. Thank you for your service, you are my sole lifeline 🫡

[painisforsundays]

[semiweirdshipper]

Slashers as fathers with a (teenage) reader.

Notes: 100% NON-ROMANTIC. Platonic love only. Non-binary reader. The reader is a young teenager (you decide the age). Freddy is alive and NOT a pedophile.

Summary: The slasher fathers feeling guilty after hurting their child's feelings. PART TWO. Hurt/comfort addition.

Folks who wanted to be tagged. @hope4rain19, @minaxcarter, @brooke-stinson, @urminebutidontwantyou, @gaipplrhot, @gyarukitti, @raphydude, @thelxapeia, @ant1d3pre55ant5add1ct, @decentsoupperson, @kawaistrawberry21.

Freddy Krueger

Freddy sighed as he stomped to your room in search of his laptop. You had been in such a rush this morning to get to school that you had accidentally left it in there. And while he always respected your wishes for him to never enter your room, he really needed his laptop. Sacrifices need be made some times.

However, as Freddy wandered into your room, he was met with a sight that literally stole his breath. Your bed was completely littered with folders and painted canvas boards. There was a large portfolio bag laying on the ground with its contents scattered everywhere. Painting and drawing utensils alike sat scattered over a table with a still wet painting taped atop.

Eyes ridiculously wide, Freddy looked around and deeply observed the area. He didn't know you owned any of this stuff. Paintings, oil canvases, drawings and sketches, and all of them were yours. And each piece looked really, really good. Freddy couldn't believe what was happening right now.

He thought you gave up on art.

Delicately picking up multiple art pieces, a happiness and sense of pride rushed through Freddy's heart, and he found himself grinning big in a mixture of relief and utter joy. You still loved art, and you were so good at it. He hadn't destroyed your passion after all. That being said though... Why would you hide this from him?

Later that day when you came home, Freddy asked you to go to the kitchen. When you went inside, you froze right on the spot. There, scattered all across the kitchen table, were multiple art projects of yours.

"Dad..." You choked, your heart racing in fear, your words stolen from you, "I..."

"I needed my laptop and uh... Accidentally found these," Freddy explained, a happy smile covering his face as he went to grab your shoulders, "Sweetie, why would you hide this from-"

"I told you not to go in there." You almost shouted, tears blurring your eyes as you pulled away from him.

"Sweetie," Freddy took a step back, hurt by your defensive attitude.

You went to the table and quickly began to gather up your art work. Freddy chased after you to try and get you to stop, "No, stop it. Don't do that- just-just wait a sec, I-"

"I get it, dad, you hate it. You've always hated my art. You-just... J-just leave me alone. Don't touch it, ok," You avoided eye contact while scurrying to protect your work, "I'll put it away."

"No, that's not what I want. (y/n). (y/n), will you please look at me. Hey," Freddy placed a hand on your shoulder and kept you from stomping off, "(y/n), look at me."

With a tense body and watery eyes, you looked at him, art work clutched to your chest and a glare covering your face.

Freddy sighed and said in earnest, "That's not what I want. Your art, I love it. I think it's beautiful an-and amazing! I-I mean, all this time? Really? I thought you gave up on it, I... I thought that I..."

Relaxing, you lowered your arms and looked him straight in the eyes. It felt like your heart had just done a summersault in your chest. "You... You mean it? You... You really like my art?"

"I love it!" Freddy exclaimed almost too quickly, "I love it so much, you have no idea. You have no idea how happy this makes me, (y/n). I thought that I ruined art for you. I... I never stopped feeling guilty about what I did. And I always hoped that one day you would start again, but..."

"Dad," You bit your lip hard in an attempt not to cry. He cared. He actually cared, and he loved your art. He was happy for you.

"Here," Freddy went to grab an old folder off the table.

Suspicious, you set down your art and went to take the folder. When you opened it, you saw dozens of old, un-crumpled papers with very distinct, familiar drawings on them. It took a minute, but you soon realized that these were the very drawings you had thrown away when you were little.

"You... Kept them?" You gaped at your dad, your heart aching in a happy/sad way.

"Of course I did," Freddy's smile wobbled a bit, "I love you and I love everything you do, and I'm so, so sorry for making you feel bad, f-for making you feel like you had to hide this from me."

Lowering the folder, you felt your lips wobble as your heart clenched in great happiness and relief. All this time you believed your dad hated your passion. He had hurt you so badly, but he regretted it. He had always regretted it, and he loved your work.

In a desperate attempt to hide your tears, you rush up to your dad and give him a big hug. Freddy held you as tightly as he could, his arms fierce and protective as he said, "Don't ever give up on your art, (y/n). No matter what, please. I love you so much."

Michael Myers

Michael had wandered out of the garage a few minutes after your friend's dad dropped you off. "Me and (friend's name) are gonna grab a snack real quick, k dad?" You had hollered while rushing into the house.

Rolling his eyes a bit, Michael approached the other man who casually got out of the car. He was grinning big at you and his own kid, seemingly proud and full of joy. "My god, man," He said mindlessly, smiling at Michael, "I tell ya, that was one hell of a game today. Whoo, and (y/n)? My god, they were great."

Puzzled and confused, Michael could only tilt his head in wonder. Game? What game?

The man shook his head and gave Michael an even more puzzled look than he himself sported, "Hey, how come I never see you at any of their games? Rough job or something?"

Michael's silence and confused expression urged the man to explain more.

"You know, the (sport) game? Just had one today- what a show I tell ya. But, I just- I never see you there, you know?"

At that, Michael's eyes went unspeakably wide. (sport)? You were playing (sport)? What? For how long? Why didn't he know about this? He thought you quit playing that when you were little. What was going on?

A week later and Michael was sitting amongst the crowd that was watching your (sport) game. You didn't know he was there. You didn't even know that he knew all your secrets like the fact that you had been playing (sport) for years, how you had won two trophies, the fact that this is where you spent most of your time at, and so on and so forth.

While watching the game, Michael couldn't help but to feel a deep sense of pride, relief and great joy at seeing how passionately you played and how much fun you were having. And you were so talented at it. The other team didn't stand a chance. You had grown so much since you were little. To this day his own actions still haunted him.

He hurt you. He 'scarred' you. And, although you continued doing what you loved, you had still felt the need to hide it from him, for years. He did that. He had made you feel so anxious and insecure that you felt the need to hide your greatest passion from him.

What kind of father does that to their child?

Unsurprisingly, your team won the game, and Michael couldn't be more proud or excited. Once the crowd and commotion calmed down, he patiently waited on you to exit the changing rooms. The way you hid yourself...

Michael gazed around at all the happy families congratulating and/or comforting their kids. It crushed his heart thinking about the sheer loneliness you expressed after the game ended and you had no one to celebrate with aside from your team mates.

When you came out of the changing room, Michael straightened his posture and faced you. It took you a minute, but eventually you looked up, saw him, and froze. A gasp escaped your mouth while your backpack fell from your shoulder to your shaken hand.

Michael's chest ached at the sight of your frightened, horrified face as you frantically looked around as if for an escape. Quickly he approached you and said in sign language, "That was a good game."

"Dad," You stepped away from him, panicked, "I-it's not what you think-I... I-I was just-I'm..."

You were scared, Michael realized, guilt beating on him like a hundred hammers. He waved his hand at you to get your attention, "Why didn't you tell me you were playing (sport)?"

"I..." You stare at him in great panic that melted into sadness and fear. You dropped your backpack and covered your face, saying brokenly, "I'm sorry, dad. I... I didn't mean to. Don't be mad, please, I-I... I'll stop playing it."

What? Micheal rushed to you and went to gently pull your hands away from your flushed face. What had he done? "No, I'm not mad. Please stop panicking. I'm not mad. Not at all."

Confused, you look at him through tear colored vision.

"I just found out you were playing (sport). You even have trophies. (y/n), why did you keep this from me?"

"Because," You winced, "You said I wasn't good at it. You... You hate me for it. I... I just wanted to be happy. I... I didn't mean to..."

He couldn't believe how upset you were, and all because he found out that you were doing what you loved. Marching up to you, Michael pulled you into a big hug that lasted for several minutes. When he noticed you calm down, he moved back a bit and explained.

"I was an idiot back then. I never should have said those things to you, (y/n). I've always felt bad for how I made you feel. You're not bad at (sport) and I never wanted you to stop playing. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I made you feel this way."

You were shocked speechless, so Michael pulled you into another hug. You hugged back, relieved. He wasn't mad at you. He apologized. Everything was going to be alright.

Bo Sinclair

Bo lived in a very, very small town. Everyone knew each other and every piece of information that existed on the surface. Rumors spread and gossip filled the air like pollen. So it didn't take very long for Bo to learn that you had been practicing engineering with the car shop just down the road.

At first Bo had been ecstatic. You were still interested in engineering? He thought you didn't want to do that anymore; you said so yourself. Ever since the incident when you were little, you hadn't helped him with anything physically constructive- not even stuff as simple as hanging a picture on the wall.

Pretty much everyone praised you and said that you were doing a tremendous job. Your skill towards fixing vehicles was a natural, golden talent. You were an impressive, fast learner and everyone loved and appreciated you.

But when Bo tried to approach you about this exciting news, he was confused to hear you deny all of it. You shut his exclamations off and said that the towns people were lying. You claimed to have nothing to do with engineering. Yes, you hung around the car shop, but nothing was going on, you were just bored.

Bo didn't understand it. Why would you lie to him about this? He knew that the towns people weren't making this up- just ask the guy who took a picture of you and your buddies covered in grease while working on a truck engine. You looked so happy. Why was that something to lie about?

For the life of him, Bo could not figure out what was going on with you. Obviously you were lying to him, but he couldn't get you to explain why. It was as if you were completely and utterly avoiding him now, and it was driving him crazy.

So Bo reached out for help.

"Well," Your engineering teacher said in a tense tone, "I talked to em an' they said it's 'cause they don't wanna make ya mad."

"Huh?" Bo shook his head in exaggeration. What did that even mean?

Your teacher gave him a wearisome look, "I think they're afraid you're gonna blow a gasket on em if they do somethin' wrong. I take it that... you got a short temp?"

At that question, Bo was immediately rushed with memories of the past, and he found himself feeling overwhelmed with guilt and dread. That time he got mad at you when you were little, you didn't just give up on engineering. You gave up on everything that had to do with him. Was this why? Because you were afraid that he would get mad at you if you messed up or made a mistake?

You were afraid of his temper.

Coming to realization, Bo spent quite a while trying to figure out how he should approach you. He wasn't the best at emotions or having deep conversations. If he tried to explain himself he feared he would just say something stupid and cause you to be more upset with him.

So he waited for the perfect moment.

A couple weeks later, Bo dragged you to his shop to show you something that caused your mouth to fall open in awe. "Ram 3500, 2018. An' look at'er license plate."

Gasping the name of the state the enormous truck was from, you faced your dad with absolute excitement and disbelief, "Why's it here?"

"Ah, a little transmission trouble on the road," Bo smiled and slung an arm around your shoulder, "Nice huh? She's a beauty. Needs lotta' work, fast, an' I want 'you' to help me."

"What?" Your behavior changed drastically, "Dad-"

"Look, I've already heard all the gossip. I've seen ya work at the shop. I know you know what you're doin', (y/n)," Bo went to stand in front of you. "But what I don't understand is why ya don't wanna work with me."

"It's not... I just..." You sighed and looked at the ground, lost on what to say. A pain filled your chest as you admitted quietly, "I ain't perfect, dad, I... I make mistakes."

"And?" Bo pushed for a better answer.

His impatience and lack of understanding made you snap, "An' you can't handle that. Every time I mess up even the tiniest bit, you get mad at me. What do you expect me to do, huh? I'm only (age)."

Going silent, Bo relaxed upon learning what exactly your insecurity was. You were avoiding him because you were afraid of him getting mad at you for making mistakes. He did this. He put this fear in you, made you this way. And because of that, you were both teetering on the edge of complete life separation.

"(y/n)," Bo reached out and put a hand on your shoulder, "I'm sorry."

Your entire body froze.

"I... never meant to make ya feel this way. I know ya ain't perfect. You're still learnin' an' you've got a long ways to go, but... I wanna be there for you, (y/n). I wanna help you. I wanna watch ya grow, an' I can't do that if ya ain't around... I'm better than I used to be. So if you mess up, I ain't gettin' mad. I'm helping you, because that's what fathers do."

Shot by your dad's moving words, you find yourself staring at him for a long moment before a large smile bloomed across your face. "Right dad," You say, "Let's take a look at her."

With his heart skipping over the moon, Bo grinned and thanked the very stars themselves for this moment, and he lead you to your first shared project since you were a mere, little kid.

Hannibal Lecter

One night Hannibal got bored and lonely and decided to go to Will's house which was where you liked to spend lots of time at. He didn't mind you staying with Will, but some times he himself felt a little bit left out.

When he arrived at Will's house, he quietly made way up the stairs of the porch and temporarily paused just outside of the window. Casually peeking in, Hannibal spotted Will sitting at the dining table reading a newspaper while you stood in front of the stove in the kitchen. Your sleeves were clumsily rolled up and you had a apron on.

The motions of your arms and the state of the kitchen did not lie. You were cooking. You were quite literally cooking food right in front of him. Hannibal couldn't help but to release a small shudder of mixed emotions. It had been years since he last saw you cook- years since he demolished your feelings and forced you away from the passion you both once shared.

To see you cooking now? It made Hannibal erupt with questions and emotions. How long had this been going on? What were you cooking? Why were you cooking? How come he didn't know? Were you happy? Was this why you always spent so much time with Will?

Speaking oh whom, Hannibal watched as you handed out a spoon to which Will stood up to receive. Taking a taste of the spoon, Will made a bright face and reached out for a container of spice. You smiled, laughed and nodded, happily going to add some of the recommended spice to your dish.

Grinning, Hannibal couldn't help but to feel great pride. So, you could handle personal opinions and constructive criticism? What an astounding chef you turned out to be, and you looked so happy too.

Regaining his composure, Hannibal straightened his hair and went to knock on the door.

It took over five minutes for Will to answer.

By that time, things had grown to be rather chaotic. Now only did Will claim that you had gone to bed, but that he also was the one responsible for the late night meal.

Hannibal knew better though.

Whilst you pretended to sleep in the guest bedroom, Will and Hannibal stood in the kitchen gazing around at all your hard work.

"They told me what happened when they were little," Will said, a disappointed look on his face, "How could you say that to them, doc?"

Hannibal stared down at your unfinished dish, his heart clenching in memory of the past. "I spoke out of impulse. I didn't mean to cause them this much insecurity." To think you would go out of your way to lie to him. "How long has this affair been going on?"

"I don't know. Few years?" Will shrugged, "I was cooking macaroni one day, they asked to help and... The ship set sail, I guess."

"You reignited their flame," Hannibal huffed and smiled, "I'm grateful."

"Ever thought about apologizing?" Will asked.

"I have," Hannibal said softly, "However, they refuse to have anything to do with cooking."

"You told them that they were a horrible cook and a waste of time in the kitchen. What did you expect would happen?"

Hannibal bowed his head in shame. He hurt you, more than he had ever imagined. After all these years he believed that you had moved on and found different passions, but instead you clung to cooking and desperately sought hiding it from him because of fear. What kind of father was he to do that to you?

The next morning after the drive home, Hannibal kept you in the car to say, "(y/n). I know it was you who cooked at Wills the other night. I saw."

Having been dreading this exact conversation, you flushed darkly and turned your head away in great shame, sadness and fear. "I'm sorry."

"Please do not apologize," Hannibal cursed at himself for how anxious he made you feel, "I am more grateful than you could ever know."

That stirred a confused reaction from you.

"(y/n), you do not have to accept my apology, but I want you to promise me that you will continue to do what you enjoy, especially if it is cooking." Hannibal looked to you hopefully. "Seeing how happy you were... You have no idea how much joy it brought me. I thought I had destroyed your passion, but..."

Now completely facing your dad, your mouth was agape and your heart pounding furiously with emotions.

"I've always regretted what I said to you that day. It was rude and improper, and most certainly untrue. You are an astounding cook and I'm proud of you. I'm sorry that I hurt you, but, even if you do not wish to forgive me, I hope that you will always continue to do what you love."

Looking at your dad with watery eyes, you blinked and fought for the right words to respond with. All these years you had been terrified of your dad's wrath and disapproval when it came to cooking. He was right, he did hurt you, and the pain was still lingering inside you.

Even though what he said now brought you some form of relief and comfort, you couldn't help but to still feel a little bit of lingering hurt. "I... I need time." You reply quietly.

Hannibal nodded in understanding, "And time you shall have. I will always be here to support you."

-

If I made a part three, it could be about the reader still suffering some anxiety while doing their passion around their dad. And the slasher dads' will be nothing but happy, supportive and proud. You know, just casual comfort and fluff.

[whimsyfaes]

Hi,

could you please write a Hannibal one-shot, where Hannibal is Will‘s substitute as an FBI teacher as long as Will is in prison and he falls in love with one of the students? She is one of the best in her class and he also sees she is attracted to him, so he asks her to stay after class?

The Drowning

Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x female reader

Details: smut, (reader mid 20's), teacher/student, foreplay, mentions of gore

Minors DNI, 18+

Flashes of the overhead's images on the wall made your eyes squint slightly from the brightness, each photo depicting different scenarios of the surrounding area's murder sprees. You're used to seeing such explicit imagery, though sometimes an image or two will make your skin crawl with discomfort. But you haven't been called the best of your class for nothing, always rising to the top and taking on the challenge with no complaint. The other FBI students were slightly jealous of your natural academic mind, but they also looked up to you for guidance on their own performances.

And Hannibal took note of this.

It was no secret to yourself that you have felt infatuation for the new professor, already knowing of him since he was your former teacher's psychiatrist. You've heard nothing but great things, some even of gossips of how entrancing he was, like a Greek God that stalked the school's concrete walls. It was hard NOT to feel some type of attraction to him. And for the other student's, they had felt the same way.

He was a masterpiece.

But little did you know, that the masterpiece before you thought of the same when it came to you. Which if you were to find out, thought it was absolutely ridiculous. You, of all people, a meek, tired little thing who had an obsession with black coffee to keep you going through the day. To him however, this was a breath of fresh air, and one he would gladly inhale for the rest of his days.

"Now, can anyone tell me why the killer decided to have such a intricate display of the victim's body? Do we have any idea of what the killer was inspired by?"

Hannibal's eyes trace the crowded room with a raised brow, silence filling the air and the occasional tap of a nervous pencil. You sighed to yourself quietly, knowing that if no one blurted out the answer, it was most likely going to fall upon your shoulders. Your hand then raises upward embarrassingly, some eyes rolling because of course the best in the class knew the answer.

How this excited Hannibal.

"Perhaps the killer was inspired by Shakespeare's Macbeth, the drowning of Ophelia? It could be indicated by the water lilies that surround her body, a common flower connected to water and innocence. The opening of her chest could also indicate that she died of a broken heart, plus she is under a willow tree, where the famous Ophelia fell."

More silence filled the air, a cough from someone sounding before Hannibal gave a smile of excitement. "Excellent, precisely. The killer was obviously inspired by the famous Poet, which seems to also be the case when it comes to any serial killer really. Artistry, is the main innovation for their motives."

Your eyes connect for what seems like an eternity, small breaths escaping your parting lips with the harsh fluttering of your beating heart.

Were you, the Ophelia, about to fall into darkness?

The ringing of the bell caused you to jolt in surprise, the rustling of bags and paperwork filling the room as everyone began to depart to their next field. You couldn't stop the slight trembling of your fingers as you pull your things together, the last student's footstep leaving the room before you hear a familiar voice.

"Not you, stay for a moment please."

You halt in place before lifting your gaze towards him, his lithe body stalking with purpose behind his mahogany desk.

"You did very well today, and color me surprised on your Shakespearean knowledge. Not a lot of FBI workers have the comprehension of his complex writings."

A small swallow forms, your cheeks flushing a bright shade of crimson before moving your gaze downward to your fingers. Your nails are obscenely short from your nervous nail biting habit, but it makes it easy to pull a trigger.

"I do a lot of reading in my spare time, Professor Lecter. Shakespeare has always fascinated me, even as a little girl."

His delicate hand lifts with a small chuckle escaping his soft lips, which you did not intend to stare at this long. It's funny, if there was a black shroud upon his frame, he would almost resemble the Grim Reaper himself.

Shouldn't that frighten you?

"Please, call me Hannibal. I am only filling in Will's time for a couple of months, and would rather not fully take on his title."

A smile forms on your face before biting your bottom lip, nodding in agreement before you begin to collect more of your paperwork into your bag.

"Well, Hannibal. You have been doing very well in his stead. He might have some competition when he gets back."

Was that a tease that spilled from your lips? Gods, it came out so naturally that you didn't even notice at first. But once he starts to move slowly towards your frame is when you began to put the pieces of the puzzle together.

"And what kind of competition would that be?"

If you just kept your mouth shut, you wouldn't have this overwhelming desirable feeling to hide yourself in the darkest corner imaginable. But alas, this wasn't the first time your mouth got you in trouble. He's towering over you now, your rear hitting the back of your desk with a slight creak of metal against floor.

"Well I mean, -...um...your teaching methods..."

His head cocked to the side with a sly, devilish grin, those darkening orbs in his skull drawing to gaze upon your slightly chapped lips.

"You believe my teaching methods are superior to Will Graham's?"

A small meek nod forms, your fingers reaching behind you to grasp the desk's wood tightly with white knuckles. He has waited so long for this moment, to ensnare the little rabbit who always just seemed a hand's touch away. A satisfied smirk trails on his gaunt face, for he knows he has finally caught you, the perfect subject to twist and form into his own twisted masterpiece.

"Shall we test that theory?"

He waits patiently while moving a soft hand to caress the side of your jawline, your eyes fluttering from the gentle gesture before meeting his gaze with a deep breath.

"......Yes...."

You have fallen, dear Ophelia.

The sudden feeling of his lips against your own made you gasp in fever, his other hand moves to cup both of your cheeks for guidance. Flesh kneaded against your own in a steady rhythm. He's taking your time with you, not to scare off the poor little rabbit too fast. You're hanging upon the desk for dear life, brows knitting together in concentration of his lead, a waltz of lust that you haven't experienced before in your lifetime.

It was then that he quickens the pace, pushing himself harder into your trembling frame while diving his skilled tongue past your opening mouth. You moan wantonly then, a small growl of his own forming in unison as he moves to pull upon your ponytail with control. It's as if you are melting under his touch, his experience in the art of seduction almost too much for you to bear.

Hannibal release then, breathing heavily upon your jawline before giving chaste kisses and slight bites with teeth, his calloused hands moving to cup upon your clothed breasts in a firm movement. It almost startles you, a shocking gasp escaping before he moves his mouth to assailant yours once again. You don't remember raising your hands to grasp his shoulders, but when you can feel the soft expensive silk under your fingertips, it brings you back to reality.

You are kissing your Professor, and Hannibal of all people.

He pulls away to begin to unbutton your uniform attire, a white button up shirt you thrifted not too long ago. Each movement is calculated, like a pianist wanting to get the perfect note each time.

"Are you ready for your lesson, my dear?"

His voice is hoarse from his own arousal, your eyes widening in surprise from his words. Was he seriously going to try to teach you something, while doing THIS type of behavior? It made your heart flutter wildly in your caged chest, it rising and falling before he reveals your cotton bra.

"What-...what kind of lesson, Hannibal?"

Oh how the devil smirks, his eyes trailing up to meet your own doe ones while holding your tender bust in his hands.

"Recite for me....the Death of Ophelia..."

It was then that you felt some type of fear hit your entire being, like a deer that had stumbled upon thorn bramble and unable to escape. Your breathing intensifies as you stare upon him with parted lips, his hands continuing their kneading while patiently waiting for you to begin. He was TOYING with you, and of course your stubborn brain wouldn't allow that to happen.

You've been through far too much to have this man steal your tongue.

" -....W-When down her weedy trophies....and herself...." You begin with a meek tone, his skillful fingers moving to remove the article of clothing in one swift movement. You can't hold back a loud whimper from the sudden feeling of chill air licking your breasts, his mouth moving to envelope around a hardening bud for protection.

"Her -....c-clothes spread wide... and mermaid like... awhile they bore her up..."

Hannibal praises you with a muffled hum of approval, tongue sliding effortlessly around your sensitive bud and giving a lewd suckle. His other hand moves to dive slowly, carefully, down between your legs, which you open obediently with a roll of your head.

"Which time she chanted snatches-....o-of old tunes..."

After that singular word he dove his hand down your work trousers to rub against your clothed sex, your panties already beginning to soak under his touch as you moan heatedly from the act. He has you in his complete control, and every circular motion of his finger combined with the flicking on his tongue on your breast causes your stomach to tighten and coil with pure arousal.

Hannibal pauses for a moment, his own hair a bit disheveled and falling across his sunken eyes while gazing upward at you. He wants you to continue your rehearsal, and will not proceed his lewd actions until you do. With a huff, you move your hands to hold onto the back of his head tightly, hips subconsciously rolling into his hand as you begin once again in a hoarse tone.

"As one incapable of her own d-distress...or l-like a creature....ah-...native and indued..."

He's absolutely purring now with delight, his mouth retreating from your sensitive nipple to have both hands quickly thrust your pants downward in a harsh movement. It caused you to jump slightly, his usual professional demeanor now replaced by pure hungry desire. Like a wolf that has been starved, finally able to feast on what he has been dreaming most nights alone in his bed.

"Unto that e-element...but not long it could not be..."

You're watching him slither down your frame like a viper, his eyes locked upon you as if you were about to dissipate and never return. But you knew, deep down in your heart, there was no going back. And you did not want to. No, you belonged here, your hand outstretching to brush a fallen lock behind his ear. He takes this gesture with a tilt of his head towards your touch, his hungry mouth opening to breathe wantonly against your thigh with a dash of tongue.

"Till that h-her garments... h-heavy with their drink...."

Hannibal removes your panties while staring into your soul with each word that escapes your lips, his own mouth moving to ghost along the wetting of your folds in a delicious torture. It is mentally noted that you must finish the prose, before getting your ultimate reward. Your blunt nails move to grasp the desk's sides while bending your back slightly in the sitting position for more access, a long sigh escaping your lips while you gaze down before him.

A God....upon his knees....

"Pull'd the poor w-wretch from her melodious lay....to muddy death..."

You were gone before it even began, the sudden wet heat diving into your wanton core causing a strangled cry to escape you. Tight tremors from each sinful lick upon your folds made the desk move slightly in rhythm, a starved growl emitting from his lips that vibrated upon you. More, you needed more, a small series of babbles leaving you as you tilted your head backward in pure ecstasy. Of course he was this skilled with a tongue, a finger moving to rub along your swollen bud in time with his flesh diving inward inside a nectar crevice. You can hear the lewd actions echo in the room around you, another one of his hands moving to grasp your thigh in a tight vice grip, the other fingers moving to spread you open like the most desired prize he has won in his lifetime.

You couldn't think, couldn't fully register what was happening for it was all too much to feel, your toes curling in your shoes as he dove two fingers inside you with purpose.

"H-Hannbial -.... ahn God..."

He chuckled against your folds before lifting his head towards your gaze, slicked with your essence of your coupling in the most beautiful of ways.

"There is no God here, my love..."

And with that, he plunged into you with a faster rhythm, your thighs convulsing from the intensity as he lavished your budding flower. There was only so more you could take, a hand moving to grip his lose locks tightly enough to cause a groan from his lips.

"I-I can't...I'm...."

"Come on me....."

His deep hoarse voice against your throbbing cunt was enough to send you over the edge, your back arching in the most angelic way while you spill your essence on his fingers and face. He's ravenous over it, taking it all in as if he were drunk on it. And when he pulls away and your body shivers from the lack of contact, he can only gaze into your eyes with pools of black that are his own.

His mask had cracked, revealing what truly laid there all this time.

The monster, is finally revealing himself.

[aspenmissing]

ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

ʙᴀᴄᴋ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

ᴀʀᴄᴀɴᴇ -

ᴊᴀʏᴄᴇ, ᴠɪᴋᴛᴏʀ, ᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ, ᴠᴀɴᴅᴇʀ, ꜱɪʟᴄᴏ, ᴊɪɴx (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ), ꜱᴇᴠɪᴋᴀ, ᴠɪ, ᴄᴀɪᴛʟʏɴ, ᴄᴀɪᴛᴠɪ, ᴄʟᴀɢɢᴏʀ, ᴇᴋᴋᴏ, ᴍᴇʟ, ᴍᴇʟᴊᴀʏᴠɪᴋ

ꜱᴜᴘᴇʀɴᴀᴛᴜʀᴀʟ -

ꜱᴀᴍ ᴡɪɴᴄʜᴇꜱᴛᴇʀ, ᴅᴇᴀɴ ᴡɪɴᴄʜᴇꜱᴛᴇʀ, ᴄᴀꜱᴛɪᴇʟ ɴᴏᴠᴀᴋ, ᴅᴇꜱᴛɪᴇʟ, ᴊᴀᴄᴋ ᴋʟɪɴᴇ (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ), ɢᴀʙʀɪᴇʟ, ʟᴜᴄɪꜰᴇʀ, ᴄʀᴏᴡʟᴇʏ, ʀᴏᴡᴇɴᴀ

ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʟᴋɪɴɢ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ -

ʀɪᴄᴋ ɢʀɪᴍᴇꜱ, ᴅᴀʀʏʟ ᴅɪxᴏɴ, ʀɪᴄᴋʟʏ, ɴᴇɢᴀɴ ꜱᴍɪᴛʜ, ɢʟᴇɴɴ ʀʜᴇᴇ, ᴍᴀɢɢɪᴇ ɢʀᴇᴇɴᴇ

ᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀʟ ᴍɪɴᴅꜱ -

ꜱᴘᴇɴᴄᴇʀ ʀᴇɪᴅ, ᴀᴀʀᴏɴ ʜᴏᴛᴄʜɴᴇʀ, ᴇᴍɪʟʏ ᴘʀᴇɴᴛɪꜱꜱ, ᴅᴀᴠɪᴅ ʀᴏꜱꜱɪ (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ), ᴅᴇʀᴇᴋ ᴍᴏʀɢᴀɴ

ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅʀᴀɢᴏɴ -

ʀʜᴀᴇɴᴇʏʀᴀ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ, ᴅᴀᴇᴍᴏɴ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏɢᴇɴ, ᴊᴀᴄᴀᴇʀʏꜱ ᴠᴇʟᴀʀʏᴏɴ, ᴀᴇᴍᴏɴᴅ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ , ᴀᴇɢᴏɴ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ, ᴄʀᴇɢᴀɴ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴋ

ɢᴀᴍᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜʀᴏɴᴇꜱ -

ᴊᴏɴ ꜱɴᴏᴡ, ʀᴏʙʙ ꜱᴛᴀʀᴋ, ᴛʏʀɪᴏɴ ʟᴀɴɴɪꜱᴛᴇʀ, ᴊᴀᴍɪᴇ ʟᴀɴɴɪꜱᴛᴇʀ, ᴅᴀᴇɴᴇʀʏꜱ ᴛᴀʀɢᴀʀʏᴇɴ, ᴛʜᴇᴏɴ ɢʀᴇʏᴊᴏʏ, ʙʀɪᴇɴɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛᴀʀᴛʜ, ʀᴀᴍꜱᴀʏ ʙᴏʟᴛᴏɴ

ʟᴀᴡ ᴀɴᴅ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀ -

ᴏʟɪᴠɪᴀ ʙᴇɴꜱᴏɴ, ᴅᴏᴍɪɴɪᴄᴋ "ꜱᴏɴɴʏ" ᴄᴀʀɪꜱɪ ᴊʀ, ʀᴀꜰᴀᴇʟ ʙᴀʀʙᴀ, ʙᴀʀɪꜱɪ, ᴀᴍᴀɴᴅᴀ ʀᴏʟʟɪɴꜱ, ɴɪᴄᴋ ᴀᴍᴀʀᴏ, ᴅᴇᴄʟᴀɴ ᴍᴜʀᴘʜʏ, ᴍɪᴋᴇ ᴅᴏᴅᴅꜱ, ᴛᴇʀʀʏ ʙʀᴜɴᴏ

ʜᴀɴɴɪʙᴀʟ (ᴛᴠ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ) -

ʜᴀɴɴʙᴀʟ ʟᴇᴄᴛᴏʀ, ᴡɪʟʟ ɢʀᴀʜᴀᴍ, ʜᴀɴɴɪɢʀᴀᴍ, ꜰʀᴇᴅʀɪᴄᴋ ᴄʜɪʟᴛᴏɴ

ꜱᴛʀᴀɴɢᴇʀ ᴛʜɪɴɢꜱ -

ᴇᴅᴅɪᴇ ᴍᴜɴꜱᴏɴ, ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇ ʜᴀʀʀɪɴɢᴛᴏɴ, ꜱᴛᴇᴅᴅɪᴇ, ​🇯​​🇮​​🇲​ ​🇭​​🇴​​🇵​​🇵​​🇪​​🇷​, ʙɪʟʟʏ ʜᴀʀɢʀᴏᴠᴇ, ɴᴀɴᴄʏ ᴡʜᴇᴇʟᴇʀ, ʀᴏʙɪɴ ʙᴜᴄᴋʟᴇʏ, ᴊᴏɴᴀᴛʜᴀɴ ʙʏᴇʀꜱ

ᴄꜱɪ (ᴍɪᴀᴍɪ/ʟᴀꜱ ᴠᴇɢᴀꜱ) -

ɢɪʟ ɢʀɪꜱꜱᴏᴍ (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ), ɴɪᴄᴋ ꜱᴛᴏᴋᴇꜱ, ɢʀᴇɢ ꜱᴀɴᴅᴇʀꜱ, ᴅᴀᴠɪᴅ ʜᴏᴅɢᴇꜱ (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ), ʜᴇɴʀʏ ᴀɴᴅʀᴇᴡꜱ, ᴀʀᴄʜɪᴇ ᴊᴏʜɴꜱᴏɴ, ᴅ.ʙ. ʀᴜꜱꜱᴇʟʟ (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ), ᴍᴏʀɢᴀɴ ʙʀᴏᴅʏ, ᴛɪᴍ ꜱᴘᴇᴇᴅʟᴇ, ʀʏᴀɴ ᴡᴏʟꜰᴇ

ɴᴄɪꜱ -

ʟᴇʀᴏʏ ᴊᴇᴛʜʀᴏ ɢɪʙʙꜱ, ᴀʙʙʏ ꜱᴄɪᴜᴛᴏ, ᴛɪᴍᴏᴛʜʏ ᴍᴄɢᴇᴇ, ᴀɴᴛʜᴏɴʏ ᴅɪɴᴏᴢᴢᴏ

ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ ᴡʜᴏ -

10ᴛʜ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ, 11ᴛʜ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ, 12ᴛʜ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ, 13ᴛʜ ᴅᴏᴄᴛᴏʀ, ꜱᴘʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀ, ʀɪᴠᴇʀ ꜱᴏɴɢ, ᴄʟᴀʀᴀ ᴏꜱᴡᴀʟᴅ

ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏʏꜱ -

ʙɪʟʟʏ ʙᴜᴛᴄʜᴇʀ, ʜᴜɢʜɪᴇ ᴄᴀᴍᴘʙᴇʟʟ, Qᴜᴇᴇɴ ᴍᴀᴇᴠᴇ, ʜᴏᴍᴇʟᴀɴᴅᴇʀ, ꜱᴏʟɪᴅᴇʀ ʙᴏʏ, ᴀɴɴɪᴇ ᴊᴀɴᴜᴀʀʏ

ɢʀɪᴍᴍ -

ᴍᴏɴʀᴏᴇ, ʀᴏꜱᴀʟᴇᴇ ᴄᴀʟᴠᴇʀᴛ, ᴍᴏɴᴀʟᴇᴇ, ɴɪᴄᴋ ʙᴜʀᴄᴋʜᴀʀᴅᴛ, ꜱᴇᴀɴ ʀᴇɴᴀʀᴅ, ᴛʀᴜʙᴇʟ

ɢᴏᴛʜᴀᴍ -

ᴊᴇʀᴏᴍᴇ ᴠᴀʟᴇꜱᴋᴀ, ᴊᴇʀᴇᴍɪᴀʜ ᴠᴀʟᴇꜱᴋᴀ, ᴏꜱᴡᴀʟᴅ ᴄᴏʙʙʟᴇᴘᴏᴛ, ᴊɪᴍ ɢᴏʀᴅᴏɴ, ʜᴀʀᴠᴇʏ ʙᴜʟʟᴏᴄᴋ, ꜰɪꜱʜ ᴍᴏᴏɴᴇʏ (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ)

ᴘᴇᴀᴋʏ ʙʟɪɴᴅᴇʀꜱ -

ᴛᴏᴍᴍʏ ꜱʜᴇʟʙʏ, ᴊᴏʜɴ ꜱʜᴇʟʙʏ, ᴀʀᴛʜᴜʀ ꜱʜᴇʟʙʏ, ᴀʟꜰɪᴇ ꜱᴏʟᴏᴍᴏɴꜱ, ꜱɪꜱᴛᴇʀ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴀᴍᴇʀɪᴄᴀɴ ʜᴏʀʀᴏʀ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ -

ᴛᴀᴛᴇ ʟᴀɴɢᴅᴏɴ, ʟᴀɴᴀ ᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀꜱ, ᴋɪᴛ ᴡᴀʟᴋᴇʀ, ᴄᴏʀᴅᴇʟɪᴀ ɢᴏᴏᴅᴇ, ᴋʏʟᴇ ꜱᴘᴇɴᴄᴇʀ, ᴍɪꜱᴛʏ ᴅᴀʏ, ᴊɪᴍᴍʏ ᴅᴀʀʟɪɴɢ, ᴅᴀɴᴅʏ ᴍᴏᴛᴛ, ᴇʟꜱᴀ ᴍᴀʀꜱ (ᴘʟᴀᴛᴏɴɪᴄ), ᴊᴏʜɴ ʟᴏᴡᴇ, ᴊᴀᴍᴇꜱ ᴍᴀʀᴄʜ, ᴇʟɪᴢᴀʙᴇᴛʜ, ᴋᴀɪ ᴀɴᴅᴇʀꜱᴏɴ, ᴍɪᴄʜᴀᴇʟ ʟᴀɴɢᴅᴏɴ, xᴀᴠɪᴇʀ ᴘʟʏᴍᴘᴛᴏɴ

ɢᴏᴏᴅ ᴏᴍᴇɴꜱ -

ᴄʀᴏᴡʟᴇʏ, ᴀᴢɪʀᴀᴘʜᴀʟᴇ, ᴘᴏʟʏ

ʀᴇᴅ ᴅᴡᴀʀꜰ -

ᴀʀɴᴏʟᴅ ʀɪᴍᴍᴇʀ, ᴅᴀᴠᴇ ʟɪꜱᴛᴇʀ, ᴄᴀᴛ, ᴀᴄᴇ ʀɪᴍᴍᴇʀ

ꜱɴᴏᴡᴘɪᴇʀᴄᴇʀ -

ᴊᴏꜱᴇᴘʜ ᴡɪʟꜰᴏʀᴅ, ʙᴇꜱꜱ ᴛɪʟʟ, ᴀʟᴇxᴀɴᴅʀᴀ ᴄᴀᴠɪʟʟ, ᴍɪꜱꜱ ᴀᴜᴅʀᴇʏ, ʙᴇɴɴᴇᴛ ᴋɴᴏx, ᴊᴏʜɴ ᴏꜱᴡᴇɪʟʟᴇʀ, ᴊᴀᴠɪᴇʀ ᴅᴇ ʟᴀ ᴛᴏʀʀᴇ, ʙᴏᴊᴀɴ ʙᴏꜱᴄᴏᴠɪᴄ

ꜱᴛᴀʀ ᴛʀᴇᴋ -

ꜱᴘᴏᴄᴋ, ᴊᴀᴍᴇꜱ ᴛ. ᴋɪʀᴋ, ᴄʜʀɪꜱᴛᴏᴘʜᴇʀ ᴘɪᴋᴇ, ʟᴇᴏɴᴀʀᴅ "ʙᴏɴᴇꜱ" ᴍᴄᴄᴏʏ, ᴍᴏɴᴛɢᴏᴍᴇʀʏ "ꜱᴄᴏᴛᴛʏ" ꜱᴄᴏᴛᴛ, ᴡɪʟʟɪᴀᴍ ᴛ. ʀɪᴋᴇʀ, ᴘᴀᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴇᴋᴏᴠ

2/ʟᴇꜱꜱ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ꜰᴀɴᴅᴏᴍ ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀꜱ -

ᴊᴏᴇʟ ᴍɪʟʟᴇʀ (ᴘᴇᴅʀᴏ ᴘᴀꜱᴄᴀʟ), ꜱʜᴇʀʟᴏᴄᴋ ʜᴏʟᴍᴇꜱ, ᴊᴀᴍᴇꜱ ᴍᴏʀɪᴀʀᴛʏ, ʟᴜᴄɪꜰᴇʀ ᴍᴏʀɴɪɴɢꜱᴛᴀʀ, ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍ "ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀɴᴅᴍᴀɴ"

[marksbear2]

Hi papa could we get literally any slashers w reader faking an orgasm. I just think that would be interesting. Have a nice day 💕

I kept laughing when I was writing this dude 😭. I lowkey love this request like it’s something I never got before. I don’t even know what to with the title 😭. I’m probably gonna do a pt2 on this with slashers like Norman and Brahms

SLASHERS WITH READER WHO FAKES ORGASMS.

⚠️ Warnings!- Multi slashers, mix top and bottom reader. Short but sweet, fake organs ofc, Jason, Hannibal, both ghostface original killers and Michael.

JASON VOORHEES

He was mostly confused, he heard your fake moaning and awkwardness but he didn’t think much of it at first.

When he tried to go again you quickly told him you were tired and needed to get rest so he allowed it. When you left to the bathroom he noticed that the sheets didn’t have cum on them.

He sat there waiting for you to come back and when you did he stared at you silently for the whole time in his own mind. He rethinks y’all’s two entire sex life.

He sat there nervously and anxiously wanting to bring it up so bad but didn’t have the courage to. But the next time you two had sex and you faked orgasmed again he was sick of it and sat there annoyed waiting for your explanation. If you can’t provide one he thinks that he’s the worse person ever at sex.

BILLY & STU (GHOSTFACE)

“Did you even cum?” Billy asked as he watched you pull out and listened to you say yes. Stu and Billy exchanged a look as they was you dispose of the condom. “He definitely didnt cum you must be a bad fu-“ Stu was about to tease but Billy shoved him before he could finish.

The two talked about it ever since then trying to get to the bottom of why did you fake cum.

Next time having sex you was fucking Stu as Billy was jerking himself off to it, Stu already came about two times so you wanted to wrap things up. You began to awkwardly and trying have a convincingly good orgasm.

Both Stu and Billy picked up on it and laughed at you, not in the mean way just teasingly. Now they try their best to make you cum.

MICHAEL MYERS

While being bent over and Michael pounding you from behind. You made your body tense up and began to let out more moans then “came.” With Michael being nowhere near done with you he grabbed your cock to jerk you off while you came but as he did it he felt your cock not pump out anything.

You could feel his judging eyes from the dark mask he kept going until he finally came himself before dragging you on the bed to jerk you off wanting to see are you even able to cum.

If you don’t he doesn’t care, but if you have another fake orgasm he watches and stares.

HANNIBAL LECTER

He noticed the moment that you seemed that you’re not getting any pleasure from this at all. He saw your body language and the way you moved.

As you fake came, he was laying on his back thinking with a small smile tugged at his lips when he heard and saw your fake moans and movement. Grabbing you by the back of your hair before you could pull out.

He was quick to confront you, pressing you about it until you actually gave him an answer. Since he is a bit curious and asks you way too many questions about Whats wrong.

THE END

[cece693]

Hannibal with a reader who sort of speaks in a way that doesn't make much sense on surface level but is still cohesive if you think hard enough

this sounds strange i know but think of like- jack stauber/jack stauber's micropop

that kind of cohesive nonsense i suppose

Didn't know who that was, so thanks for the clarification. This is a short fanfic (think of it as an imagine, if you will.) Tried my best, hope you enjoy!

YOUR WAY OF SPEECH IS PROPHETIC

pairing: hannibal lecter x gender neutral reader

The first time Hannibal hears you speak, it’s during a lecture—not one he's giving, but one he’s politely attending at Jack Crawford’s insistence. You're on the panel, invited as a specialist in symbolic logic and criminal semiotics. When asked a question about patterns in ritualistic murders, you say: “It’s always the moon, you know. People think it’s the knife. The blood. The cadence of breath before the scream. But it’s the moon. The way it watches. Waxing. Waning. Approving.”

The moderator blinks. “You’re saying the lunar cycle causes murder?”

You smile without showing teeth. “No. I’m saying the moon sees the murder before it happens, and if you ask her nicely, she’ll tell you where the next one will bloom.”

Laughter ripples through the audience—polite, nervous. But not from Hannibal.

Hannibal tilts his head. He understands you.

Naturally, he invites you to dinner. He serves something red, rare, elegantly cruel. You swirl your wine like you’re coaxing an oracle from the bottom of the glass. “You don’t eat much,” Hannibal says, gently.

You glance up. “I do. Just not in front of gods.”

A beat of silence. Hannibal’s lips twitch. “Am I a god to you?”

“You wear suits like armor and smile like a guillotine. If not a god, then a very patient devil.”

Hannibal's fork never makes it to his mouth.

Over the next few weeks, your paths converge unnaturally often. You show up to crime scenes where Hannibal is consulting. Sometimes you’re already there, crouched beside the body, muttering like a priest in a language no one was ever taught—only born understanding.

Hannibal watches how Will squints at you like you're an itch under the skin. But Hannibal…Hannibal listens. One day, you murmur, “The killer wrote a letter. Not in ink. In absence.”

“There is no letter,” Will argues, voice strained.

“There is. You’re just not reading between the blood.” Hannibal sees it now. A trail. A pattern. A poetry of butchery only you speak fluently.

You're in Hannibal's office next. Leaned back in his chair, head tilted like a broken marionette. “You let your clock run ten minutes fast,” you say casually. “Most people do it to trick themselves. You do it so your lies have time to arrive first.”

Hannibal clasps his hands together behind his back. “You think I lie?”

“I know you lie. But you do it beautifully. Like opera.”

“Should I be concerned you understand me so well?” Hannibal's voice is calm. Curious.

You shrug. “No. You should be flattered. The labyrinth only recognizes kin.”

That night, he dreams of you. Not your face, exactly, but your voice—soft, curved, layered like peeling fruit. Speaking nonsense that tastes like prophecy. Words like “the hunter wears perfume to confuse the deer” and “truth isn’t real, only sharp”. He wakes with your name in his mouth; it feels like an invocation.

The next dinner, you don’t touch your wine. “You've killed someone,” you say simply.

He stills. “What makes you think that?”

“You wear guilt like cologne. And your hands are too clean.” He waits. For judgment. For fear. For retreat. Instead, you reach across the table, fingertips brushing his knuckles. “I don’t mind, you know. The world’s too loud. Sometimes it takes a man like you to hush it properly.”

Hannibal exhales. Something akin to relief. Maybe awe. “You’re dangerous,” he murmurs.

You grin. “That’s why the stars won’t look me in the eye.”

He kisses you like a promise written in blood. And you kiss him back like you’ve known him since time was a shadow. When he pulls back, your voice is quiet in the hush between breaths. “We’ll be beautiful monsters together. Like stories no one survives but everyone tells anyway.”

Hannibal, for once, has no clever reply. Just the curl of his hand at your nape, and a mind already rewriting eternity to make room for you.

[shegatsby]

Ok may I request a soulmate au with a reader who is oblivious but like she doesn’t wear heels or makeup he’s like all natural. And she foster kittens.

Fluff to nsfw sub reader

Inexperienced virgin reader

A/N: Hi! I'm finally getting to my request, i had other ongoing stories to write so i have been busy and apologies! Love you all, enjoy!

Warnings: Smut. Virgin reader.

She was walking to the animal shelter, they had her number so whenevr there was an emergency of fostering kittens they would call her and she was on her way, cold Baltimore weather not giving her a break. It was snowing like crazy but she didn't care, she had speacial place for animals in her heart, especially cats so she was going to do whatever it would take to help animals, no matter what. As she got off the bus she literally ran to cross the street to the animal shelter and just as she was about to reach for the door she slipped and fell on her ass. She sighed, cursing her fate, she was about to get up when she saw a gentleman's hand extended towards her, ''Mind if I help you Miss?'' a low baritone voice pulled her back to the reality, ''T-thank you.''

She managed to say and took the hand of the stranger and with his help she got to her feet. The stranger's hand was strong and with his other hand he held her side to steady her and she felt something in her chest, maybe it was beacuse of the cold air or how charming the stranger was. ''I believe our destination is similar.'' he added, pointing the animal shelter, ''I believe so.'' she replied smiling ''Allow me.'' the tall stranger opened the door for her and they walked inside, thankfully the inside was warm and welcoming. ''Are you here to adopt?'' he asked curiously, ''No, they called me to foster kittens, they have my number so whenver they need someone to take care of a clowder of kittens I'm here for the rescue.'' she shortly explained and it earned her a small smile for the man in an expensive long coat and black leather gloves. His maroon eyes regarded her kindly yet with a touch of distance, ''What an honorable task to complete. I'm charmed.'' and in that oment she felt a rush of heat climibing to her face, she wanted to curse under her breath but held herself. ''Are you hear to adopt?'' she asked the same question. They were standing still, no one seemed to pay attention to them, ''No, I'm here to pick medicine for a friend's dog.'' he explained nonchalantly, ''Oh, what an honorable task to complete.'' she said and walked to the desk to retrieve the kittens that needed her attention and care.

After that strange meeting with that stranger she haven't seen or hear from him for a week, just like any other encounter. However, something happend which gave her a slight hope. One evening she was in her home, kittens on the floor sleeping or eating, she got news that all of the kittens would be in their new homes soon so she was happy and sad at the same time. As she was watching her favorite TV show her phone rang but it wasn't soemone she knew, she waited and then decided to answer. ''Hello?''

''I'm sorry to bother you but I have received your number from the animal shelter.''

And with that low baritone she froze on her couch, was this the man she met a week ago, ''Yes....'''

''My name is Doctor Hannibal Lecter, I have an emergency with a mother cat and her kittens, I called the animal shelter but they said they were closing and gave me your number instead.'' he paused and then chuckled to himself, she liked the sound of that, ''Honestly, I'm lost when it comes to taking care of animals, I don't know if they're healthy or not, is it okey if I brought you the mother cat and kittens... tonight?''

She checked her clock on the wall, her house was clean and tidy, she was in her pjs. ''It's alright. I'll send you the address.'' and they hung up.

After 30 min Doctor Hannibal Lecter was in her home with the mother cat and kittens, ''Good heavens! You already have 4 of these little creatures, I had no idea, I'm so sorry.''

She laughed little, ''It's fine, they will be gone soon, all of them are adopted. I'm happy to have new ones.'' As they sat on her couch she checked the mother cat and the kittens and they were fine, of course they were fine, Hannibal just needed excuse to get her number and see her, she was so attractive that Hannibal had never seen a woman with such natural, divine beauty. If she were in ancient times she would have started at least 3 wars in her name but he would fight, deceit and do whatever it takes to have her for himself. Her hair was loose, she had no make up and she had basic clothes, black leggins, wrapping her delicious legs rightly, and a white sweater. Obviously she was young, maybe freshly college graduate, her flat was small, maybe she rented when she was studying and decided to stay.

''They seem fine. I'm happy to take care of them.''

Hannibal was glad but didn't want to leave and end the conversation, thankfully before he could initiate she did. ''Would you like some coffee?''

Later, they were drinking their coffee and having a nice chat of art, education and culture. He learned that she working at a corprate job, cyber security and it was 9 to 5. He liked a woman with a stable job and a good career, full of posibilites.

Hannibal wanted to caress her face and tell her how naive she was, he got those cats from another animal shelter just to see her and get her number.

Once the conversation came to realtionships he asked if she had a boyfriend and learned that she was single and it looked like a long time, ''That's crazy, how can a woman such as charming and beautiful yourself be single?!'' he protested but deep down he was relieved that he didn't have to remove the ''boyfriend''

After that night Hannibal had a solid excuse to talk to her thanks to the cats, and after days he had invited her over for dinner, to thank her formally.

That night she showed up in a simple black dress, her natural hair long and loose, Hannibal got her coat and hanged it and welcomed her.

She felt a bit embrassed when she saw the courses he had prepared himself. He was a very capable man indeed.

''Hannibal.. these are delicious.'' she had to admit, over the days they became in name basis, he wanted so.

''I love cooking for people I care about.'' He replied, was it too soon? Once he saw her reaction it satisfied him. She blushed and looked away.

After the dinner Hannibal took her to the basement to show her the wine collection he had and seeing her leaning on the wall did something to him, he was going to court her for a long time and then make a move but in that moment all of his rules were thrown away. He took a step towards her and kissed her soft lips, she was backed against the wall next to the wine racks. She froze when she felt his plump lips on hers, what was going on? She slightly parted her lips for him to enter and continue kissing her but her whole body was in fight or flight mode, she wasn't used to this, her last boyfriend was back in first year of college and then she didn't date anyone, also the fact that she was still a virgin made her heart beat faster than normal. ''Hannibal..'' she moaned into his mouth, her hands came to his clothed chest to stop him, Hannibal stopped, he tried to catch his breath he was looking into her doubtful eyes, ''I've never...'' she began and silenced herself, Hannibal had a hunch but now he was certain. ''I know,'' he said softly, he caressed her cheeks and kissed her forehead, ''If you let me I would like to make you mine tonight.'' his words, the positing they were in it was all intoxicating so she gave in, nodded slightly and Hannibal, with a swift motion picked her up bridal style and carried her upstairs, his bedroom. She didn't have much time to look at his room but it was chic and elegnat with dark tones, he laid her on the soft, satin sheets that smelled fresh. He started leaning down on her and closing the gap and they started kissing slowly, soon the kiss got heated, her hands went to his shirt to take it off, he unbottened and took it off, his toned and hairy chest was at display and she ran her hands on his chest, he was also fit, maybe he was also working out, he was perfection. Later his hands started to play with hem of her dress, she was shy but let him take off the black dress and she was in her simple black underwear, she felt embarrased but Hannibal reassured her, ''The most dublime being on this earth...'' and he started kissing her legs, working his way up to her thighs and then belly and his lips found her lips once again. He was way older and experienced then her so she decided to let herself be relaxed and in his hands, he knew what he was doing. He gently took off her bra and tossed it aside, she wanted to cover her breasts but he didn't allow it, he held her wrists, ''I want to see you, sweetheart.'' she was blushing crazy but she also felt safe, Hannibal's mouth found her tit and started sucking gently and playing with the other, his hot mouth made her moan in pleasure, she was getting wetter each second. Then, he didn't forget to suck the other one, making wet sounds were driving her mad. ''Hannibal..'' she whimpered, ''Yes, my love.'' he replied with a cocky tone, making a pop sound as his mouth left her tit, ''Please...'' she begged and Hannibal was pleased, ''Please what? Use your words, sweetheart.'' he loved her like this, desperate and in need.

''I want you.. I need you..'' she was whining like a cat and he loved it. He had been with many women before but Y/N was the one who entertained him and gave him pleasure by just being displayed on his bed, all flushed and shaking.

''Your wish is my command.'' and with that he took off his pants and boxers, climbed back to his bed and took off her panties as well. She was again shy and reluctant a bit but Hannibal, without scaring her, he pushed her legs apart and saw her shiny core, all wet and never been used, just for him and him only. Hannibal was going to make sure that she belonged to him, body and soul after tonight.

''You're so wet... all for me..'' he had an idea, ''Come here and spit on it.'' his hand went to her chin to grab her gently, and she was lifted. She looked at his cock, it was big and viney. She spit on it and looked up into his dark eyes, ''That's a good girl.'' and he pushed her back and she was enjoying it. This new side of him, dominant and in charge. She was on her back again, legs spread wide and she watched Hannibal tease her entrance with his tip, even the slightest touch made her shiver in ecstasy. ''Tell me how much you want me, love.'' he was calm but with and edge, he couldn't wait to be inside her and make her his but he needed to hear it. ''Hannibal... I want you so bad, please fuck me.'' she confessed, ever since the first day she saw him she felt this pull toward him, like a magnet. Hannibal growled in desperation and slowly entered, he was intent on being slow and gentle first. As he was halyway in she was a whining mess under him and he liked the image he saw, he made a mental image to remember it whenever he wished. He leaned to kiss her as he fully entered her wet core, she arched her back like a feline, so hot. ''I know baby,'' he was whispiring in her ear as he picked up a pace, ''I know, I know, just endure for me...'' she was cluthing the satin bed sheets like her life depended on it, she had never expected sex to be this good, of course at first there was a skight pain but then Hannibal's skillful movements made her feel like she was on the clouds. ''You like it, princess?'' his pace got a bit faster, in his room they could hear the skin to skin contact, wet and obscene sounds filling their ears. ''Yeah..'' she whined her eyes close, ''Look at me, look at me as I fill you up.'' he held her chin and force her to look and the sight she saw was something she had never seen before but she liked it. She wanted to be his for the rest of her life.

''Look how perfect you're.'' Hannibal was telling the truth, ever since their first encounter he also had a strange pull toward her that he couldn't explain, maybe her natural beauty or the innocent look in her pretty eyes... he didn't care. All he wanted was to be around her and have her in his space, after the cat incident he had another plan coming to his mind as he was filling her up, he was going to orchestrate an immoral plan to make her live with him but they needed time for that. He had to earn her trust completely. His cock in her made Hannibal feel like he was a cave man, getting what he wanted, and he liked that primal feeling. She brought that feeling in him with her soft feminine manners and features. ''Say my name!'' he was getting close, her wet pussy was so tight that he was about to see the stars, ''Hannibal..'' she looked into his eyes as he was pounding in her like a man starved. ''Hannibal..'' he liked the sound of her desperation and need and he knew himself, tonight was going to be a long and sinful night. His free hand went to play with her clit to also bring her close, that little bundle of nerves did wonders to his case, she started to shake deeply, and she was coming with spasm, and then Hannibal followed, he spilled inside her, no protection, no nothing. ''Fuck...'' he growled, buried deep inside her, she kissed him and he rode his high, once his seed spilled in her wet core he pulled out and watched it, he used both of his hands to open her up good and watch his seed come out, it was a sight to see. He looked up to meet her gaze, ''You're mine.''

Thank you for reading. :)

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

Hey,

Could you please write college au with Hannibal Lecter?

.⋆｡A New Study｡⋆.

Hannibal Lecter x plus size reader

A late-night study session in a tiny dorm could be exactly what you needed to keep around the mysterious classmate from college

Warnings: College!au, fluff, one bed trope kinda, implied smut WC: 819

6k Follower Celebration Bingo

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

“Are you paying attention?” You almost scoffed at the question. Amber eyes, though dulled by the dim lighting of your bedside lamp, bore into you with an intensity that made you shiver. His dark brows were scrunched together as he observed your hunched figure from where you were perched on your now unmade bed, papers and open textbooks scattered around you.

‘Like I could concentrate when you look that fucking good.’ Your sleep-deprived mind wanted to say but instead you swallowed the last of your energy drink and cleared your throat. “It’s 3 am, maybe we should call it a night. Don’t think I’m gonna understand the purpose of the fucking pancreas anymore now than if I stayed up the whole night.”

Hannibal licked his lips as he shut his notebook, a strand of black hair falling in front of his left eye. He smoothly brushed it back into place. “You might be right. We should get some rest before the exam.” 

You hummed and shifted so you could face your study buddy. He was wearing his typical black button-up, still perfectly ironed even after almost 12 hours of cramming and a full morning of an anatomy lab. You could only imagine how awful you looked right now, especially compared to the ever-perfect Hannibal Lecter. 

“Thank you for helping me study. ‘and being my eye-candy’ “I don’t think I would’ve gotten this far in med school without you.” He leaned back on your desk chair, his legs spreading as he relaxed into the cheap mesh backing. 

“You’ve done rather well without me and I have no doubt you would’ve been fine without my assistance.” His accent was thicker with the late hour, a fact that made your stomach flutter. While he never explicitly told you where he was from, moments like these gave you little clues and hints on his mysterious past. It was even a miracle you learned his name.

Heat crawled up your neck, blooming across your cheeks as you bashfully looked away. “You only say that cause I always check your citations for you.” A rare laugh escaped his lips, instantly brightening your dorm room with its sound. 

“I’m sure.” A pleasant silence settled between you, one that had you searching for any excuse for him to stay. You cursed yourself for stopping your study for the night, you should’ve powered through just so you could keep ‘tall dark and mysterious’ right next to you all night. 

“It’s rather late.” Hannibal muttered though he made no move to gather his things.

You hummed, then your exhausted brain finally caught up to the hint he had just dropped. Your eyes widened as you scrambled to find the right words. “It is! I mean it’s really late, so the trains and buses have stopped running. And I doubt a cab will come all the way out here. So maybe- maybe you could stay over. If you’re comfortable with that of course! I don’t want to force you or anything.”

“You are very generous. I think I will stay, like you said, taxis don’t come this far out of the city.” He smiled and the breath was knocked from your lungs. 

“We’ll have to share my bed.” You pushed all your papers together in a jumbled up pile, shoving them onto your bedside table. “I hope you don’t mind.” You missed his sly smirk as his gaze briefly fell to your ass.

“I hope you don’t mind, I sleep in my boxers.” Your stomach flipped.

‘As long as you don’t mind me drooling.’

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He smirked, his thick fingers pulling at the buttons of his shirt, slowly exposing more and more of his (of course) perfect chest. You blinked.

“Did I say that out loud?” He rose to his feet, putting you at eye-line with his belt buckle. You swallowed thickly. Dark hair, perfectly trimmed and shaped poked out from where the front of his dress pants sagged and you couldn’t bear to look away, the sleep-deprivation overpowering any shame you would’ve normally had in this moment.

“Even if you didn’t, it was quite obvious what you were thinking. What you’re always thinking. You have delightfully expressive eyes.” His belt slipped through the loops and dropped to the carpeted floor. 

“Uh huh.” His shirt slipped from his broad shoulders.

“It is quite flattering how you look at me when you think I’m not watching.” The button of his pants popped open as he dragged his fly down, leaving you hungry for more. You didn’t even realise you had been slowly leaning forwards until your nose bumped against his stomach. “Just like now, like you want to devour me.”

“But I believe it is distracting you from your studies far too much.” A large, warm hand cupped your full cheek, forcing you to meet his gaze as Hannibal grinned.

“Perhaps we should review some anatomy.”

Slashers Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Join my taglist!

All works

@im-a-slut-for-fluff @alexxavicry @ravenwings73 @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 @silverfire475 @psychadelichues @mvyalx @faefanatic @evansqueen54 @anamiad00msday @th3sloth @princess76179 @Lanielagenev @luvvvjada @Lucypaulette @midnight-shadow-va @mooniequeen @slutfor-fictionalmen @km-ffluv @black-rose-29 @minedofmoria @relatednative @starboygf

Hannibal NBC

@andreasworlsboring101 @Azazel.M @hanniballover67 @ambassadortotrilliusprime @cuntpuntcowboy @girl-of-multi-fandoms @originalsourpatch @mandythemint @eyelessjack20 @0alk0msan @sleepysouluniverse

Hannibal Lecter

@Th3ylov3izxy @annhells @coolcat2244 @lovelyy-moonlight @cilliansangel @mewlingoizys @darleneslane @wisteriia222 @nyx2021 @thequeenreaders @eternallyvenus @aoi-targaryen

[defectivevillain]

tongues and teeth

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

reader's pronouns & race: unspecified, ambiguous

summary:

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

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

word count: 6k | ao3 version

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, Chef—” Franklyn sputters. 

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

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

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

“How is it?” Lecter questions. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay,” Chef Lecter insists. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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