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cece693 · 5 months ago

Note

could I maybe request something for a male reader and hannigram? something where the reader is always really quiet and generally avoids people so everyone thinks he’s shy, but one conversation with him shows that he is NOT shy—he’s just on the verge of murdering someone constantly. ‘Never plan a murder out loud’ type shit

so idk like quiet, anger issues-y type of reader? anyways thanks :3

On the Tip of Your Tongue

pairing: hannigram x male reader tags: reader isn't who he seems, hannigram is supportive, no murder today, short but sweet, kinda au

You’ve always been the quiet type—or at least, that’s what everyone thinks. You’re the coworker who slips in and out of the office with barely a nod in passing. The neighbor who’s so hard to catch in conversation that people decide you must be shy or painfully introverted. After all, you rarely speak unless spoken to, and even then, it’s usually just a few carefully chosen words.

But Hannibal Lecter and Will Graham know better.

They see the way your eyes linger a second too long on potential threats. They hear the deliberate pace of your breathing when you’d rather lash out than listen to unwelcome commentary. They’ve witnessed how your fists tighten and then relax at your sides, an exercise in self-control so you don’t do something you’d regret—or maybe something you’ve been itching to do all day.

No one suspects that you’re coiled tight like a predator, mentally skirting the edge of violence at every sharp word or rude glance. Well, no one besides your boyfriends.

You live with Will and Hannibal in a large, old house on the outskirts of Baltimore. It’s tastefully furnished—Hannibal’s touch, of course—with warm wooden floors and richly colored walls. Tucked into a corner near the fireplace is a battered armchair that’s Will’s favorite spot. When you get home from work tonight, you find Will curled up there, jacket tossed over the chair’s arm, while Hannibal stands by the mantle, hands clasped behind his back.

“There you are,” Will says, sounding relieved. “Busy day?”

You loosen your tie with a quick tug and hang it over the coat rack. “Something like that.”

“‘Something like that’?” Hannibal repeats with a faint tilt of his head. He steps forward, curiosity sparkling in his eyes. “It’s rare you come home so tense.”

You offer him a crooked half-smile. “I had a run-in at work.”

Will sits up straighter, frowning. “Everything okay?”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” you say, your voice low. You’re aware, in that moment, that anyone else would have shrugged it off with a polite, noncommittal phrase. But you don’t bother hiding the edge in your tone. Not in front of these two men. “Let’s just say I gave someone a wake-up call.”

It’s Will’s turn to smile, the corner of his mouth quirking with interest. “I’m guessing there’s more to the story than that.”

You shrug. “Maybe a bit.”

Earlier That Day

You work at a forensic consulting office attached to the FBI. You’re not a profiler—Will’s got that covered, and so does Hannibal, in his own capacity—but your role is instrumental. You file case reports, cross-reference data, catalog evidence, and do some background research that often proves vital. It’s not glamorous, but you do it well. Quiet competence, that’s your calling card. Nobody expects the seemingly shy, unassuming coworker to have sharp claws.

Apparently, Joseph Sykes in the archives department was in the mood to push buttons today. He’d made an offhand remark about your “lack of communication skills,” implying you were borderline useless in a high-stakes environment. Maybe if you were more gregarious, you’d climb the ladder faster.

You could practically feel your temper thrumming. There’s a little tingle in your fingertips, that familiar rush of heat across your temples. The darkness that’s always lurking on the edges of your mind wanted to creep in, to let you imagine just how easy it might be to…

No. Not here. You repeated the same mantra you always do. Never plan a murder out loud, and never lose your cool so publicly.

Instead, you turned to face him slowly. You allowed the silence to stretch until Joseph got a little uncomfortable, shifting his weight from foot to foot. When you finally spoke, your voice was quiet enough that only he could hear, but laced with a menace that forced him to pay attention.

“Joseph,” you said, leaning in slightly, “I don’t need to be loud to get results. If you want to see me really speak up, keep trying to push me.”

His expression froze as he realized that, beneath the polite exterior, something lethal flickered behind your eyes. You gave him a small, dangerous smile, then calmly walked away. He was left standing there, mouth slightly open, unsure of what to say.

Back Home

Will’s eyebrows lift as you finish recounting the incident. “You put him in his place without even raising your voice?”

“Didn’t have to.” You shrug, crossing the room to where Hannibal stands. He places a hand lightly on your shoulder, warmth radiating through his long fingers.

“We all have our own ways of asserting dominance,” Hannibal murmurs, a private amusement in his tone. “I’m glad you didn’t escalate things. Though, one day, perhaps you’ll indulge me and share how you control that hunger.” His eyes flick over yours, curious and admiring.

“I don’t know if you’re the last person who should be encouraging that or the best person,” you tease. “But it’s not about control so much as picking the right moment. I’m not going to waste my time or energy on something that small.”

Will stands, padding softly over to the two of you. “That’s what I love about you,” he says. “Everyone thinks you’re just quiet and shy, but the reality is far more interesting. You’ve got more bite in you than half the people at the Bureau combined.”

You offer a wry smile, stepping closer so that Will can take your hand, and Hannibal, your other. “There’s a lot they don’t know, that’s for sure.”

A small silence settles over the three of you—comfortable, warm. Even with your smoldering anger from earlier, you can’t help but feel at peace here. In their presence, your edges don’t feel quite so sharp. There’s an understanding that hums beneath the surface; you don’t need to watch your every word or apologize for the way your thoughts naturally veer. Will and Hannibal know who you are in your quiet moments and in the moments where the darkness tries to seep out from behind your eyes.

And they accept you, entirely.

Later that night, you’re in the kitchen with Hannibal. He’s slicing vegetables for a late dinner, and the rhythmic sound of the knife against the cutting board is almost hypnotic. You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him with a lazy sort of fascination.

Without looking away from his task, Hannibal speaks up. “There’s a question on your mind.”

You exhale slowly, pushing off the counter to stand at his side. “I’m not sure it’s a question so much as an observation. Everyone at work still thinks I’m meek. Even after all this time. When someone like Sykes decides to test me…some part of me wants to prove them wrong in a very, very final way.”

Hannibal’s lips curl into that refined, knowing smile. “The instincts we share can be…difficult to restrain. But you have an advantage: clarity. You know when to yield, and you know when to stand your ground. That’s more power than you realize.”

He sets the knife down and meets your gaze, eyes dark with a fond, predatory glint. “And perhaps you enjoy having them underestimate you.”

Will appears in the doorway then, shoulders relaxed. “Dinner almost ready?” he asks lightly, though he picks up on the electricity in the air. His gaze dances between you and Hannibal, reflecting his quiet understanding of the unspoken tension you both carry.

“Almost,” Hannibal replies, returning to his slicing.

Will moves close enough to rest a hand on your lower back. “And you? You alright now?” His tone is gentle.

You let out a tight breath and allow yourself to lean into his touch, if only a little. “I’m fine.” Your voice drops, turning wry. “Calmer than I was earlier, anyway.”

“Glad to hear it,” Will says. He presses a light kiss just behind your ear. It’s casual affection, but it’s enough to smooth out the last of your lingering frustration.

You smile, truly smile, for the first time that evening. Because this moment—this comfortable, domestic moment with Hannibal and Will—is what keeps you anchored. You can keep your secrets and your darkness close, but never alone. You can unleash your quieter, deadlier side at will, knowing they won’t turn away from you. If anything, it only draws you closer.

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cece693 · 5 months ago

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Devotion in the Ashes

pairing: hannibal lecter x gender neutral reader tags: reader knew hannibal when they were kids, mentions of extreme devotion and love, human hannibal, no specific time line, child-adulthood

You first met Hannibal Lecter on a summer afternoon in 1939, when the world outside the Lecter estate still felt safe. Your families were neighbors—your father had been a friend of Count Lecter, and your mothers often hosted tea in the estate’s sunroom. You were hardly more than a child, but so were Hannibal and his little sister, Mischa. Back then, Hannibal had been a quiet boy with gentle eyes and a clever mind that never stopped whirring behind his stillness. Mischa was the opposite—loud giggles, constant questions, and a warmth that always drew you in.

But war doesn’t spare childhood innocence for long. Lithuania became a battleground, and your carefree days grew scarce. Meals shrank to rationed scraps. The hush of nighttime was shattered by planes overhead, rumors of soldiers roaming the forests. You, Hannibal, and Mischa sought refuge in the corners of the Lecter property, whispering stories to distract yourselves from the thunder of artillery not too far away.

Snow covered the Lithuanian countryside in a harsh white sheet the winter that changed everything. The Lecters’ castle was overrun by desperate, violent men—soldiers or scavengers, it hardly mattered. In those terrifying nights, you recall Hannibal shielding Mischa behind him, urging her to be quiet, his heart pounding against your shoulder as the three of you huddled together in the darkest part of the cellar.

When Mischa was taken, a piece of Hannibal died. You were there, but powerless. The soldiers overpowered you, shoved you aside, and locked you away. You lived, but you’d never forget the gnawing guilt of surviving while Mischa did not. When Hannibal emerged from that carnage, silent and seething, his small body trembling, you tried to hold him. He let you, though you realized later that in those seconds, he had receded into himself, spirit fractured by horror.

In time, you managed to slip away from the carnage. Your family left. He disappeared. Letters undelivered, calls unanswered. You carried the memory of Hannibal Lecter as something half-lost and half-stolen, sure that you would never see him again.

Your parents traveled west, seeking safety. Eventually, with the war’s end in sight, you found a semblance of normalcy, though a heavy grief remained. You couldn’t help but think of Hannibal in quiet moments—his last expression, the heartbreak etched into his features, and how tightly his cold hand had clutched yours in the last moments before you were separated.

But fate is not so easily denied. After years of searching, you discovered that he had been relocated to France, eventually living under the care of a relative. You learned he was studying medicine. The day you knocked on his door in Paris, your heart rattled in your chest, uncertain if he’d welcome you or remain a ghost from a painful past.

He opened the door, and for a long moment, you both simply stared. He was older—taller, leaner, the angles of his face refined into a striking elegance. But in his dark eyes, you saw the same swirling intensity, the same quiet gravity that had once made you feel safe and uneasy all at once.

“Hannibal,” you breathed. His gaze flickered over you—shock, relief, a glimmer of something else you couldn’t yet name. He stepped aside to let you in, and when the door clicked shut behind you, the years between you collapsed.

In the weeks and months that followed, it became clear Hannibal had changed. Shadows lingered in him, always on the edge of his features. His politeness was unwavering, his intellect sharper than ever. But behind the measured courtesy was a sea of obsessions and unspoken longing. You were relieved he trusted you—he wanted your company, perhaps more than he wanted anyone else’s. But you also sensed that he guarded something deep, a coiled darkness born from the tragedy that stole Mischa away.

He hardly spoke of his sister; you knew better than to press. But when nightmares surfaced—ragged breathing in the middle of the night—you were the only one he allowed near. You, the one from his childhood, the only one who knew him before and after.

Still, it was not merely comfort in your presence that Hannibal sought. There was a fervor, a devotion in the way he watched you. If you left his side, even for a moment, you felt his gaze follow you across the room. When you returned, he would exhale, tension evaporating. Like a priest at a forbidden altar, he worshipped you with quiet but fierce concentration. You were his anchor, the only living vestige of innocence and warmth he had left.

On Hannibal’s eighteenth birthday, you found him in an empty lecture hall—classes over, the last echoes of chatter dying out in the corridor. He sat at one of the rows near the front, eyes drifting to a window where sunlight slanted in, dust motes swirling in gold.

You set a small package on the desk in front of him: a fountain pen you had found in an antique shop, the barrel engraved with the Lecter coat of arms. He said nothing, simply clicked it open and tested its weight in his hand. Then, in a voice nearly too soft to hear, he said, “Thank you.”

You couldn’t guess then how your simple gift would stir such fierce emotion in him. But when he looked up, you saw something raw—relief, gratitude, and something else quietly smoldering behind his eyes.

“Hannibal…?”

He rose and stepped closer, so close you felt his breath. He swallowed as though preparing to speak, but no words came. Instead, he reached out, fingertips brushing your chin. You weren’t sure who leaned in first, but in seconds his lips pressed to yours—hesitant, searching. You tasted the trembling in him, felt the suppressed quake of desire. This was not the polite veneer; this was Hannibal stripped bare, desperate, clinging to a person he worshipped as his anchor against the world.

When you broke apart for air, you found your voice, shaky though it was. “Hannibal, I—”

He silenced you with a gentle press of his palm on your shoulder. You felt him exhale against your mouth, tension unwinding from his body. As he inclined his head—cheeks flushed, eyes still cast downward—you saw the vulnerability that had burrowed into him since childhood. In this moment, he didn’t wear the mask of unflappable charm; he gave you his broken pieces, trusting you to hold them gently.

From that day forward, Hannibal’s devotion only grew. It was in the quiet glances he stole when he thought you weren’t looking, the way he would hover close if anyone else tried to pull you into conversation. He wanted you entirely, as if the rest of the world was an unwelcome intrusion upon your shared space. He was fiercely protective, sometimes frightening in his intensity. When you touched him—fingers brushing his hair, your arms encircling his waist—he leaned into your every caress like a worshipper falling to his knees before a beloved deity.

But there was also the side of him that unfurled only in private. His breath catching when you took the lead, when you slipped a hand beneath the collar of his shirt and felt his heart pounding. He yielded to you, that calculating composure dissolving whenever you showed him softness. And the more he surrendered, the more you realized that Hannibal—so guarded, so controlled—desired nothing more than to be laid bare beneath the person who truly saw him.

Moments of intimacy brought him solace unlike any other. He would cling to you, voice trembling as he murmured in your ear: confessions of guilt over Mischa, the horror of what he had endured, the nightmares he couldn’t banish. He carried scars from that winter—the memory of losing her, of seeing something unthinkable. Yet with you, he trusted himself to unravel, giving you the only piece of him that was still genuinely, irrevocably human.

There came a night when you found Hannibal pacing in his room, the shutters drawn. Outside, the Parisian sky was a wash of moonlit blue. Inside, he looked ready to burst from the tension coiling in him. When you called his name, he turned with haunted eyes, as if the ghosts of those days in Lithuania hovered just outside his awareness.

He took a slow, unsteady breath. “I want only you,” he whispered, voice shaky with reverence. “I’ve always wanted only you.”

You stepped forward, cradling his face. “Hannibal, you have me.” He pressed his forehead against yours. A question trembled on his lips, but you understood before he spoke. With careful hands, you guided him to sit, letting him settle into your embrace. He yielded, fragile beneath your touch, eyes shining with unshed tears of relief.

When your mouths met again, there was nothing left of the boy who once hid behind stoicism. Instead, you felt every ounce of his need for you—his body, mind, and spirit clinging to the one person he believed could save him. In that hush of night, you made a silent promise: you would never let him stand alone against the ghosts of his past.

Hannibal kissed you back with a desperation that bordered on reverence. He was lost and found in the same breath, his entire being caught in the space between your heartbeats. As your closeness deepened, he pressed himself to you with complete surrender. This was the Hannibal Lecter no one else would ever see—vulnerable, trusting, and utterly devoted. He would let the whole world burn if it meant keeping you by his side.

In the years to come, Hannibal would chase greatness. Medicine, surgery, the refined arts. He would step into a realm of sophistication and hidden darkness. And yet, there was always you—a single constant in his fractured life. The tenderness he showed you in private belied the mask he wore in public. You were his sole confidant and temptation, the promise of genuine warmth he couldn’t find elsewhere.

At times, you would see flickers of cruelty, or hints of the shadow that lurked behind his calm veneer. You suspected he had become capable of unimaginable acts. But you also felt the ferocity of his attachment. Whenever your eyes met, you witnessed the boy from the war-torn estate, the boy who held your hand through nightmares and pressed trembling kisses to your lips as if you were his salvation.

You were the tether binding Hannibal Lecter to the last scrap of his humanity. And in turn, he was yours—devoted, jealous, and consumed by a love that had been forged in the fires of war and tragedy. No matter how many masks he wore to the outside world, he revealed the real man only to you: the one who knelt at your altar, worshipping you as the lone guiding star in a life overshadowed by darkness.

He would never let you go. And for reasons beyond simple logic or morality, you found yourself choosing to stay, bound to Hannibal Lecter by a love deeper and more consuming than either of you had ever thought possible. Together, you carried the memory of Mischa—the sweetness she represented—and refused to let that memory die. In his arms, you found the broken boy who needed your touch, your warmth. And in your presence, he found something more than hunger or vengeance: he found devotion.

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