#What does Hannibal smell like

[phoenixkaptain]

Red Dragon is even sillier than I thought.

Hannibal killed someone to resemble a medical diagram and Will went in his office because Hannibal gave off weird vibes and in the middle of their conversation, Will happened to notice a bunch of books on medicine that would include the exact medical diagram Hannibal based his kill on.

This is what Will claims made him realize Hannibal was the Ripper.

Will then said something (he doesn’t remember what, so I’m assuming he said “Just remembered, I have to make a call, brb”) to which Hannibal Lecter, who was FULLY AWARE that Will knew he was the Ripper (Hannibal in Red Dragon is a telepath, don’t ask questions), allowed Will to leave his office and call the fucking police on a payphone (which I’m assuming took at least a fucking second because it’s a goddamn payphone) before being like “oh shit, right, I don’t want to be caught” and stabbing Will.

I don’t know, I just can’t get over this backstory. They’ve known each other for like fifteen minutes, maybe. Will has ADHD. Hannibal is just like “yeah, I’ll give him enough time to tell someone I’m a murderer.” Hannibal doesn’t kill Will. He is a surgeon and a murderer with quite a bit if experience at this point, I think if he wanted Will dead, Will would be dead, but instead, Hannibal just stabs him in the gut and leaves him to it.

I want to know Hannibal’s motivations in this. What was he thinking? Was he thinking? Is his side of this story like, “I’m talking to this twitchy little guy who Crawford pulled out of school (Will was in training) to catch the Ripper and we’re having a lovely talk and- oh, hey, this twitchy little guy just realized that I’m the Ripper. He wants to phone the police? Yeah, okay, I’m cool with that.”? What was going on?

(I’m tempted to believe that Hannibal let himself be caught because “you know what would really fuck with this guy? If I went to prison for my crimes.”)

Or, maybe, the fact that Will says he heard an inhale before he was stabbed implies that Hannibal was going to kill Will, but realized that he didn’t want to? Maybe he wanted to eat Will? Maybe he wanted to figure out what was wrong with Will before he killed him (coughmarajadestylecoughcough)? Maybe he actually tried to kill Will and is like “oh shit, mission failed, he’s a fucking live”?

I wish we had a story that specifically went over this one scene and I wish that Harris went into excruciatingn detail about what he was thinking when he wrote it. What was the intent?

Also, upon meeting again, Hannibal mentions Will’s aftershave. “The same atrocious aftershave you wore in court.” He specifies “in court.” I feel like this implies Will wasn’t wearing it when they met in Hannibal’s offie. Which makes sense. Will is just going there because Hannibal gives off a weird vibe, why would he shave and clean himself up? Which leads to my question, why did Lecter smell Will as he was stabbing him? Maybe Hannibal likes the smell of blood? Maybe he likes the smell to go from unstabbed to stabbed?

I don’t fucking know and I probably never will and it keeps me up at night

[willgrahamsadface]

So, about the "You made me chicken soup" scene. Most people find it funny and think Hannibal gets slightly offended, but the first time I watched it, I thought it was actually sweet.

Will wakes up to the smell of food, sees what Hannibal has brought and is genuinely surprised. Chicken soup is what you prepare to your loved ones when they're sick (like Reba does for Francis in season 3). He's not used to having people taking care of him. That's why he tells Hannibal "You made me chicken soup", and Hannibal is somehow taken aback by his reaction, and pauses before answering "Yes", in a total different tone. Like he understands the meaning his gesture has for Will. I don't think he's annoyed by the fact that Will is reducing his fancy dish to a simple chicken soup. That "Yes" is an aknowledging of his affection for Will to Will.

And he turns away, as if he'd been caught off-guard too.

[mx-pastelwriting]

hi how are you hope you are well

I wondered how the slashers would react if you hugged them from behind (^-^)/

Oooooo I like this one its so cute to imagine!

I would definitely want to make a full post later down the line with this prompt! As I'm not taking request for full posts at the moment. But heres a bit of what I think!

Slashers x GN! Reader

Summary: Prompt up top^ Small Headcanon!

I'm not open for requests, but little asks on thoughts on something is okay~

Thomas Hewitt: If it were the first time, he would jump a bit, but when realizing it was you, he would melt in your arms. He is such a gentle giant when it comes to love. Learning from it, he would do the same when he caught you with a turned-back.

Michael Myers (78 Michael): Would not understand what you were doing or trying to do. When asking what he was doing by the tone of your voice, he would understand it was another show of affection. Still working on getting used to the feeling of love and how it works, he slowly looks forward to you coming up behind to hug his waist. Little by little, considering trying it himself.

Jason Voorhees: Ticklish, for sure. Hearing him laugh a little as he squirms at your arms wrapped around his waist. Leaving you to tease him a little about it. When doing it again, you learn to do it quickly, making it less ticklish. Jason would only attempt it when having come home and cleaned up, not wanting to get mud and sweat onto you.

Brahms Heelshire: Would love it. Really love it if you get what I'm saying. Putting aside his touch-starved state, he would beg for you to do it again after that. Rarely does it to you, wanting to be the one receiving the hug. Tall man is needy.

Bo Sinclair: Spooked by it. Makes him blush hard, worse when you kiss his neck or back, making his face burn a hot red. Though rarely lets you see him in that state, Bo loves it from the first time you do it. Does it to you as well, attacking your neck and shoulder while chuckling.

Vincent Sinclair: If it wasn't for Lester's romance movies or Bo's special movies, he would have no idea what you were doing. Understanding mostly from Lester's movies to be a loving act, he smiles under his mask, though continues to do what he working on. Moving less to not spook you into letting go.

Lester Sinclair: Getting all blushy and mushy about it. Stopping what he was doing just to melt in your arms. Asking if you could just stay like that for a little longer. It would become a daily thing for the both of you taking any chance to embrace each other.

Hannibal Lector: Wouldn't physically react, greeting you as it happens and smiling, loving every one of your affectionate acts. Continuing to work on whatever he was doing, allowing you to hang onto him, whether in silence or talking about each other's day.

Will Graham: Would chuckle at you hugging him from behind, feeling as his muscles relaxed against your touch. Preferred to let the air stay quiet, with your arms warped around his waist, feeling the fabric of his flannel shirt smelling of aftershave and dog.

I didn't proofread this one too much, but I did put it through a grammar checker, so if there are any mistakes, blame Grammarly.

Hope you liked this little headcanon!

Fanfiction is protected under copyright law when plagiarism is involved. If you plagiarize my work, either a piece or whole in any language, I will take legal action. Inspiration or the same idea does NOT apply to this, only word-for-word plagiarism in any language.

♥ mx-pastelwriting does not consent to their fanfiction being copied, copied & credited, translated, used in videos and/or audios, screenshotted, used in AI, or reposted on any other platform without permission.

♥ mx-pastelwriting does give consent to "reblog," sharing links to direct work, and being in recommend lists.

[cece693]

YOU ARE FREE TO LEAVE, BUT KNOW THIS...

pairing: hannibal lecter x gender neutral reader synopsis: You had enough—determined to end your relationship, you assumed Hannibal would react more to your confession, however, he merely nodded and let you walk through the door. He knows you'll come back; this was merely a lapse in judgement.

The knife rests on the cutting board like a third heartbeat—steady, inevitable, and glinting. Hannibal sets it down only when he hears your key hesitate in the lock, that fractional pause betraying nerves you’ve trained all day to hide. He smiles to himself and wipes his hands on a crisp linen towel, turning the music down until harpsichord and silence become indistinguishable.

You step inside smelling of cold air and decisions.

He knows at once.

Tonight’s cassoulet simmers on the stove, but the aroma doesn’t coax the usual softening around your eyes. Instead, you linger by the foyer, fingers tightening on the strap of a messenger bag you never bring to his house. An exit bag, he thinks—documents, wallet, charger, sweater for the bus ride you expect to take. You haven’t plotted every step yet; the lines in your forehead say you’re still rehearsing your speech.

Hannibal tilts his head in greeting. “You are late.”

“My phone died,” you lie with reflexive ease. “Work ran over.”

He notes the absence of flowers, the lack of a quick kiss, the way you keep your shoes on. Evidence enough. But this is not a courtroom; it is a dining room designed like a chapel, and he the only minister. He gestures toward the table where two crystal glasses wait.

“Sit. Eat while it is still hot.”

“I’m not hungry,” you answer, voice thin. A rehearsal line, spoken too early.

Hannibal’s smile is pale and precise. “How unfortunate. Desire is the seasoning of life; without it, meals—and people—go bland.”

You swallow. “Actually, that’s sort of why I need to talk to you.”

A flick of genuine curiosity warms his gaze. “Proceed.”

You set the bag down—as though placing an infant in a cradle—and fold your hands so tight your knuckles blanch. “I’m leaving, Hannibal. I love you, but I can’t keep living like this. The intensity. The things we see. The things I suspect.” Your throat clicks. “I booked a flight for tomorrow night.”

He watches, unreadable, yet the room seems to contract around your lungs. You expect rage or persuasion—perhaps the cold scalpel of logic—but Hannibal simply pours the wine. Ruby liquid swirls, catching chandelier light like arterial spray. “Merlot,” he murmurs. “Full-bodied. Loyal to the tongue once tasted.”

You flinch at the metaphor. He notices.

“May I ask,” he continues softly, “how long you have planned this?”

“Does it matter?”

“Only to measure my own blindness.”

That stings—he lets it. Silence grows carnivorous, devouring oxygen. Finally, you force the words: “I can’t sleep beside you without wondering if you’re dissecting the sound of my breathing, cataloguing my pulse like… like a specimen.”

Hannibal’s eyelids lower, savoring the accusation. “And you do not wish to be studied?”

“I want to be loved, not preserved.”

He sets his glass down untouched. “You do not leave a relationship like ours the way one leaves a café, closing the door with a polite bell. Love of this caliber is an ecosystem; uproot one vine and entire orchards die.” He steps forward, slow enough not to spook you. “Come here.”

“No.”

“Come.”

Your refusal quavers. He hears the hairline crack—fear, yes, but also history, trust, longing. He steps closer, enough for you to smell rosemary and bone marrow on his cuffs. “Look at me.” Two fingers tilt your chin with something gentler than force, crueler than kindness. “If you must leave, you will at least understand what you abandon.”

“I have shown you every layer of myself,” he says, voice husky with something perilously near pain. “Curated symphonies for your moods. Fed you truth in courses small enough to digest. I have tolerated your moral fevers—your nights of conscience when you fled my bed to retch over thoughts you could not bear.”

Your eyes brim. He brushes a tear away, studying it on his thumb like a jeweler inspecting flawed crystal. “And still you stayed.”

“I stayed because I believed—”

“Because you belong,” he finishes, tone silk-steel. “As surely as spleen belongs beneath the ribcage. Remove it, and the body suffers cascades of failure.”

You shake your head. “That’s not love, Hannibal. That’s possession.”

“Possession is merely the visible spectrum of love.” He smiles, sad and terrible. “The rest lies in wavelengths few can see.”

The room tilts; you step back until the wall stops you. He follows, not hunting—orbiting. “Tell me what future awaits you in whatever city you have chosen. A small apartment. Weeknight dinners of wilted takeout. You will google therapists who promise immunity from the extraordinary. And still, when it rains, you will taste saffron and wonder if I am cooking somewhere nearby.”

Your breath fractures. “Stop.”

“Say instead: continue. Honesty deserves encouragement.”

“I said stop!”

He does. The sudden obedience unsettles you more than pursuit. Hannibal folds his hands behind his back, posture of a surgeon waiting for anesthesia to take hold.

“If your fear is police,” he says, “know they cannot protect you from an ache that originates inside your own ribs. If your fear is me—” he inclines his head—“then you admit I live within you already, and distance is a theatrical illusion.”

You glare, wounded animal edging toward fight. “You think I’m too weak to leave.”

“I think,” he answers softly, “that you are strong enough to attempt it but too sentient to succeed.”

You retrieve the bag, slinging it over one shoulder like a life raft. “I’m going to a hotel tonight.”

Hannibal steps aside, courteous. He even opens the front door. Lamp-lit drizzle threads the street; taxi lights bloom like fireflies. You hesitate in the threshold, cold biting your cheeks. “May I offer you an umbrella?” he asks.

“No.”

“Very well.” He leans against the doorframe, half in shadow, half in amber glow. “You will return.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“I have prepared the cassoulet precisely to your palate.” He gestures toward the dining room. Steam curls skyward like a prayer. “When hunger humbles you, my address will be the only one your body recalls.”

You almost laugh—a ragged, incredulous sound. “People move on, Hannibal.”

“Indeed,” he agrees. “But not from sacrament.”

The hotel bed is too white, too flat; your muscles remember the give of his mattress, the scent of bergamot on starched sheets. You dream of silverware glinting under low chandeliers, of a wine glass that never empties. You wake at 2:14 a.m. and realize you are starving.

Dawn paints Baltimore in bruise-purple shadow. You stand outside his townhouse—bag still clutched, pride bleeding from a thousand paper-cut doubts. Before you can knock, the door opens. He has been awake, of course, reading by the fire, hearing your shoes in the gravel. Hannibal says nothing, only lifts an eyebrow that asks, Hungry?

You nod, throat too raw for speech. He takes the bag, sets it gently inside the foyer—never once looking to see whether you intend to stay. Because he knows.

In the kitchen, cassoulet waits, kept warm through the night. You sit. He pours. The first spoonful is a benediction laced with surrender, and when you finally meet his eyes across the table, you expect triumph. Instead you find relief—vast and tidal—as though the world has balanced upon its axis again. “Welcome home.”

[inlovewithquestionablecharacters]

Hi,

I just stumbled upon your blog and I am already obsessed with your stories.🥰 Your writing style and the way you describe the characters is simply amazing.

Anyways, I‘ve got an idea for a one-shot, could you please write one, where the reader is Dr.Lecters patient and they bump into a very distraught Will after his session and start talking to him. Hannibal get‘s jealous, because he thinks Will is interested in the reader,after the conversation ended, tension is really high during her sessions and it get‘s steamy in the end.(nsfw?)

Hannibal x Reader: What's mine is mine

Warning: smut, oral ( f receiving), no use of y/n, penetration ( p in v), possessive behavior, jealous Hannibal, anger, not proofread, gn reader, female anatomy.

Word count: 1,2 K

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“I've told you a thousand times that that door is for exiting clients only and you continue to use it.”

“Oh come on Hannibal you know how i hate using the other door. That empty waiting room always puts me on edge.”

“And talking with another patient is prohibited, you know that.”

You spin on your heels, angrily looking at your therapist.

“For the love of god hannibal! Did you see what he looked like? He was shaking so much I thought he was having some sort of seizure!”

You’d stumbled onto a very distressed will on your way into your appointment and simply couldn’t feel like you needed to help him.

“I'm surprised you let him leave at all. That man was a complete wreck.”

“It is my job to know what my clients need.”

“Clearly you're not doing it very well.”

You could tell you’d hit a nerve because instead of debating you Hannibal simply closed the door and stomped over to his chair. You shook your head. You didn’t understand why Hannibal was so worked up about you talking to Will. It’s not like you’d done anything wrong.

And the truth was you hadn't done anything wrong. If anything you’d shown you were an empathetic person. You weren’t the issue. Will was. Or more accurately, Hannibal's jealousy of Will was. Seeing you talk to Will had sent Hannibal into a sort of spiral. In his mind you belong to him but in reality you don't.

“Okay what the hell is up with you?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh so is your face just stuck like that now? You gonna give me the stink eye for the rest of the session? I mean come on! You’re acting like you caught me kissing him.”

Hannibal's body tensed at your words. He forced himself to open his mouth.

“Did you want to?”

“What?”

“Did you want to kiss him?”

“Oh for fucks sake what does that have to-”

“Answer the question.”

Hannibal had risen from his seat. He walked over to you boxing you against him and the wall behind you. You looked up at him staring into his eyes. Hannibal was so close to you that you could smell his perfume. You took a shaky breath in.

“No.”

“What?”

“No, I didn't want to kiss him. I’m not interested in him.”

No in him but in someone. That's what your words sounded like to Hannibal. He desperately needed to find out who you were interested in. Even if it meant having to get them out of his way. 

“Who then?”

“You’re kidding right?”

Hannibal continued to stare at you as he awaited you to answer his question. You shook your head at him.

“You’re such an idiot.”

You pushed forward, hitting Hannibal's shoulder with yours as you moved away from him. Hannibal grabbed your wrist, stopping you from getting too far.

“Who?”

You tugged your arm out of his grip, turning to face him. You looked pissed, it caught Hannibal off guard.

“You! It’s you, you ass!” 

Hannibal stared at you. You’d never yelled at him before. He felt rooted to his spot. He barely noticed you moving forward before you were tugging his tie. You gave him a bruising kiss. He moved to wind his hand around your waist but before he could you pushed off him.

“There. Satisfied?”

No. He would never be satisfied. He could still taste you on his tongue. And the taste was addicting. He surged forward grabbing your head with his hand. He shoved his mouth against yours, kissing you roughly. You let him, your hands moving to grip his suit jacket. The two of you stumbled across the room, hands wildly pulling at each other's clothes. Somewhere in the middle of the process you’d managed to unbutton Hannibal's shirt and he’d managed to remove your pants. Your body fell onto the loveseat, hand moving to tug Hannibal on top of you. He kissed at your skin, his hand moving to shove your shirt up. You gasped as his hands cupped your breast, kneading them in his hand. 

“Oh Hannibal!”

God he loved the way you sounded, gasping his name. He placed a kiss to the valley of your breasts before insching himself lower. He placed small kisses all over your stomach. You watched him with glazed eyes, observing him until he was on his knees before you. He tugs your underwear off your body, moving to place it in his back pocket. You raise your eyebrows to him and all he does is shrug. You squeal as Hannibal tugs you closer to him. He leaned his head down until he’s inches from your pussy. You bite your lip in anticipation. As soon as Hannibal's tongue makes its way to your fold you can’t help but throw your head back. Hannibal grips onto your thighs as you squirm against the loveseat. 

“Oh fuck. There! Hannibal there- shit!”

Hannibal grinned against your pussy, reveling in the way your hand grabs onto his hair in desperation. His fingers moved inside you, helping his tongue in his task to make you cum. You could feel yourself clenching around Hannibal's fingers, silently telling him you were close. If that wasn’t enough the high pitched moans you kept letting out should have been a sign. Hannibal sucked at your clit and you were a goner. Your hand gripped onto the love seat as you came. Hannibal watched you breath for a moment before beginning to climb over you. You tugged him down for a kiss, tugging at his hair. He bit your lip in return. 

Hannibal's dick nudged against your thigh, his pre cum mixing with your own juices. You smiled up at him, wrapping your legs around him. Hannibal took the hint, moving to align his dick with your entrance. He glanced at you for a moment, awaiting your approval. You gave him a small nod. He moved slowly into you. Once he’d bottomed out Hannibal stopped moving, giving you time to adjust. You opened your mouth in a silent moan, brows furrowing as you felt Hannibal twitch inside you. He desperately wanted to move but he would wait for you okay.

“Jesus Hannibal, what are you waiting for? Move!”

Well that was one way to put it. 

Hannibal began to thrust into you, his movements growing more rapid as your pleasure increased. He placed one of his feet on the ground, attempting to give himself more strength. You drew a breath in as he rocked into you rapidly. Hannibal leaned down tugging one of your breasts into his mouth. He sucked at your nipple, making sure to leave a mark. From the way you clenched around him he could tell you enjoyed it so he continued his ministrations. 

“Are you almost there?”

“Uhum please don’t stop-fuck-please i’m…”

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, fingers digging into Hannibal's shoulder as you came. Hannibal felt you sag beneath him, taking it as his chance to guide your movements. His hands found your hips gripping them tightly as his thrusts began to flatter. Pretty soon Hannibal seed spilled into your walls. He laid down beside you, pulling your body closer into his.

“Remind me to make you angry more often.”

“Careful dear. That's a dangerous game.”

“Maybe that's how I like it.”

[nadinebrooks-sides]

Here is the link to my masterlist.

Hannibal Lecter: That was Impulsive

Will’s house was always quiet, aside from the occasional bark or the patter of paws on his hardwoods. The fireplace crackled low in the background as (y/n) stretched out on the couch. It was fall and the leaves had finally started to change colors. The sun was starting to set, casting a warm glow through the living room. 

(y/n) was stretched out on the couch, wearing one of Will’s old oversized flannels. It was faded and soft; it had probably seen better days, but (y/n) always asked Will if she could go through his clothes before he donated them. It smelled just like Will, cedarwood soap and the outdoors. 

Beetle, the laziest of Will’s dogs, rested his head on (y/n)’s lap while the others dozed around the room.  She let her fingers drift through his fur, lost in the book she was currently reading and occasionally glanced up at whatever reality tv show was playing on the tv. 

The doorbell was unexpected.

She blinked, set the book down, and stood. None of the dogs barked, which was odd for them. That meant they knew whoever was at the door. (y/n) gently tugged the flannel down just a little bit trying to cover more of her thighs, but it didn’t work. Hopefully whoever was out there didn’t want much. She padded toward the door and opened it cautiously. 

The man standing on the other side of the threshold was not what she was expecting. 

He was tall, composed, and dressed in an immaculate three-piece suit. The very definition of elegant. His hair was slicked back neatly, and his expression was calm but inquisitive. (y/n) recognized him instantly. 

“You must be Dr. Lecter.” 

He tilted his head with a faint smile. “I am. And you must be … the dog sitter?” 

“That’s me,” (y/n) said, stepping aside. “If you’re looking for Will, he isn’t here right now. He’s teaching his night class at the Academy. But you’re welcome to come in and wait if you want. I’m not sure how long he’ll be, sometimes he likes to stay and grade papers.”

Hannibal stepped inside with a polite nod. “Thank you. I hope I’m not intruding.” 

“Hardly,” (y/n) said gesturing toward the couch where she had been sitting moments before. “You’re just interrupting my thrilling evening of dogs and fantasy novels.”

He glanced around the living room, his sharp eyes scanning the fireplace, the scattered dog toys, (y/n)’s long legs, and the half-finished mug of tea on the coffee table. “It’s cozier than I imagined.” 

“I’ve added some flair,” (y/n) joked, gesturing to the throw blankets, rug, and photos of her and Will that were scattered across the room. She flopped back into the armchair across from Hannibal. “Will doesn’t believe in anything that isn’t brown or beige. I bring the chaos.”

A soft chuckle left Hannibal. “Yes, I can imagine. You seem … different from him.”

“Oh, I’m his worst nightmare,” (y/n) giggled brightly. “Too loud, too nosy, too curious. But the dogs like me, and that’s really the only vote that counts.” 

He looked down at the shepherd that had curled up at her feet. “And how does Will tolerate that?”

(y/n) raised an eyebrow. “Honestly? I think he enjoys having someone around who doesn’t tiptoe. We’ve known each other forever. Our moms were best friends and we were practically raised together. He sat behind me in anatomy in high school and he was always correcting my lab notes. We bickered then, we bicker now.” 

“You two aren’t romantically involved.”

“Hell no,” (y/n) snorted. “We argue like siblings. I think he’d rather walk on glass for a mile than date me.” 

“Fascinating,” Hannibal said, and though it was a simple word, it felt weighted. Like he was cataloging something.

(y/n) glanced over at him, studying him for a moment before saying, “Will talks about you, you know.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Not in great detail, but I can tell he trusts you. I think that says a lot. He doesn’t … open up easily.” 

Hannibal’s smile turned thoughtful. “No. He doesn’t. But he opens to animals. And apparently, to you.”

“He didn’t have a choice with me.” (y/n) shrugged. “We were going to be close whether he wanted to or not. Besides, we know too many embarrassing things about each other to not trust the other.” 

There was a comfortable pause, the fireplace filling the silence between Hannibal and (y/n). He leaned back slightly, one arm resting over the back of the couch. His eyes flicked down the flannel that (y/n) was wearing.

“You wear his clothes?”

“I swear it’s not a weird thing. I don’t do it that often. They’re softer than anything I own.”

“I see,” he said, his smile widening slightly. “And do you often spend your evenings like this? Dog sitting, reading, and stealing Will’s clothes?”

“Pretty much,” (y/n) said grinning back at Hannibal. “Hey, it’s cheaper than therapy.”

“That it is.” Hannibal agreed. 

Later in the week, Will arrived for his weekly therapy appointment with Dr. Lecter.

“I had an unexpected guest the other night,” Will said, his voice clipped as he poured himself tea in the doctor’s office.

Hannibal folded his hands. “Did you?”

“You showed up at my house while I was gone.” 

“Indeed. I was simply in the area. Your dog sitter was very gracious. However, now that I’m saying that out loud, she seemed to hold more weight in your life than just a dog sitter.” 

Will didn’t respond right away. He stared at his tea like it might offer answers.

“She’s … protective,” he said firmly. “Been that way ever since we were kids. She bit this kid for bullying me back when we were in elementary school. He had to get stitches. Typically she gives people the benefit of the doubt, until they give her a reason not to.” 

“Trust is a fragile thing,” Hannibal replied. “Has someone broken hers?” 

Will looked up, sharp-eyed. “She got cheated on and hasn’t dated in a while. It was pretty bad. Hasn’t let anyone in since.”

“And yet, she lets you in.”

“She didn’t have a choice with me,” Will said, repeating the words that (y/n) had told Hannibal a couple of days ago. “Besides, it’s different with us.”

“Is it?”

He didn’t respond.

Hannibal steepled his fingers. “You’re rather protective of her, Will.” 

“She’s my friend. A good one. She’s been through a lot, and I don’t want to see her get hurt.” 

“Of course,” Hannibal said smoothly, though something simmered behind his gaze. “Your concern is admirable.” 

Will narrowed his eyes. “What are you getting at?” 

Hannibal’s expression remained neutral, but the corner of his mouth curved. “Merely curious.” 

The following week, (y/n) was in the middle of attempting to make a grilled cheese at Will’s cabin when there was a knock at the door. 

The dogs stirred-two of them already barking- and she wiped her hands on Will’s pajama pants and headed for the front door. 

“Relax guys,” she muttered to the chorus of barking. “Maybe it’s a package or the neighbors or-”

(y/n) opened the door and blinked.

Hannibal stood there again, dressed impeccable in a deep burgundy jacket, a patterned tie tucked neatly beneath a buttoned vest. He held a modest paper bag in one hand. 

She blinked, not sure why he was here, not that she was complaining. “Uh…hey.” 

“Good afternoon,” he greeted warmly. “I hope I’m not intruding. I was nearby and thought to drop this off for Will. A tart I made earlier.”

Her gaze flicked to the bag. “Tart, huh? Very specific. Is it poisoned?” 

His dark brows lifted in amusement. “Only with butter and good intentions.” 

She grinned, stepping aside to let Hannibal in. “Well, in that case, come on in. He’s out again - said something about stopping by the lab. You have impeccable timing.”

He walked in smoothly, placing the paper bag on the kitchen island. “I’ve been told I’m excellent at timing.”

(y/n) tried not to read too much into that and returned to the pan, flipping to reveal a very impressive grilled cheese. “You know, if you keep showing up like this, people are going to think we’re friends.” 

“I was hoping we might become so.” he said mildly, leaning against the kitchen counter as though he belonged there.

“You don’t seem like the kind of guy who collects chatty, chaotic women as friends.” 

Hannibal chuckled, “You’re far more thoughtful than you pretend to be. Will has mentioned that.” 

“Has he?” she asked, more curious than embarrassed. 

“Yes. He speaks fondly of you. He also mentioned your … aversion to dating.” 

She paused, eyes narrowing playfully. “So now you’re using my tragic love life as small talk?”

“I apologize if it’s too forward. It was simply a topic that intrigued me. I find myself curious about you.” 

(y/n) slid the grilled cheese onto a plate and turned to face him, crossing her arms. “You’re a psychiatrist, Hannibal. Are you always this charming when you’re analyzing people?” 

He tilted his head. “Not always. But you don’t seem offended.” 

“No,” she admitted, picking up her sandwich. “I’ve been through worse than a well dressed man asking about my love life.” 

There was silence as he watched (y/n) eat, and it didn’t feel awkward for once. She was used to quiet, especially around Will, but Hannibal’s version was intentional. 

“You have a strange effect on Will,” he said after a moment. 

She raised a brow. “How so?” 

“He’s possessive, but not in a romantic way. More protective like a brother. Yet I sense he doesn’t quite know what to do with you.” 

(y/n) laughed, mouth full. “That’s mutual. He’s like a socially anxious cryptid, and I just kind of hang around because the dogs like me.” 

Hannibal smiled. “And you’ve never considered being more than friends?”

“Nah.” She shook her head. “Never. Will’s complicated, and I’m a little messy. Plus, we bicker constantly. I love him, but not like that.” 

He seemed pleased with that answer.

She leaned against the counter, sandwich in hand, and eyed him carefully. “Is this just curiosity, Hannibal? Or are you here for another reason?” 

He paused, considering. “I find your energy … refreshing. Your warmth is rare in Will’s life. You’re genuine with him. With the dogs. With me.” 

“You better be careful Hannibal,” her eyes widened slightly. “It almost sounds like you’re flirting.”

“Would it be so terrible if I was?” 

(y/n) took a bit of grilled cheese to avoid answering. When she finally swallowed, she looked him square in the eyes. “I thought you were supposed to be the scary one.” 

“I can be,” he said, his voice soft. “But I’d rather not be with you.” 

The air thickened just a little. Not in a threatening way - but in a way that made her suddenly aware of how close he stood, how much taller he was, how his voice made her skin buzz and didn’t quite know what to say to that.

Before (y/n) could respond, Will’s familiar footsteps approached from the porch, and the door creaked open. 

“Hey (y/n), I’m back,” he called - then stopped when he spotted the scene. (y/n). Hannibal. The half eaten sandwich in her hand and his psychiatrist standing just a bit too close.

Will’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. 

“Your friend brought over a pie.” (y/n) smiled at him hoping that he wasn’t as upset as he looked.

“Tart,” Hannibal corrected, with a smile.

“Of course he did.” Will’s jaw ticked. 

She gave Will a look that said don’t be weird, but he ignored it. His eyes flicked to her outfit, his pajama pants and one of his old college T-shirts. Now (y/n) could tell that he was looking for something else to be annoyed with. 

“Comfortable, are we?” he muttered.

“Don’t be an asshole. It’s not like you wear this.” She shot back.

Will finally turned his attention to Hannibal. “You didn’t tell me you were coming by.” 

“It was an impromptu visit,” Hannibal replied smoothly, lifting the bag. “I’ll leave the tart in the kitchen.” 

(y/n) watched Will watch Hannibal, and then she watched as Will looked at her, and something shifted behind his eyes. It wasn’t jealousy. It was something else. Something older. Like the realization that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t his person anymore - even in the platonic sense. 

And that realization didn’t sit well with him. 

(y/n) excused herself to let the dogs out in the backyard, giving the two men space. She was hyper aware of the tension simmering behind her as she walked away. Will’s eyes tracked her the whole time, and Hannibal watched him.

The moment the door clicked shut, a heavy silence fell between them.

“She’s a remarkable woman,” Hannibal said, smoothing his sleeves.

Will crossed his arms. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” Hannibal asked mildly, though the glint in his eyes was deliberate. “I haven't done anything.” 

“That’s what worries me,” Will muttered.

There was a pause. Hannibal glanced toward the door, then back at Will. “You care for her.” 

“She’s important to me,” Will said, voice taut. “We’ve known each other since we were kids. I know her better than more people ever will.” 

“I believe you,” Hannibal replied calmly. “Which is why I’d like your blessing to ask her out.”

Will’s whole body twitched. “You’re serious?”

“As serious as I’ve ever been,” he replied, hands clasped in front of him. “She’s clever, open-hearted, and despite her outward charm, quite guarded when it comes to trust. I respect that. And I believe I could offer her something sincere.” 

Will stared at him for a long moment, eyes dark. “You don’t do sincere, Hannibal.” 

He inclined his head. “I do, on rare occasions.” 

Silence stretched again. Will exhaled sharply and shook his head, running a hand through his curls. 

“She’s been through enough,” he said, voice low. “If you screw with her or if you hurt her, even accidentally - ”

“I won’t.” 

Will stepped forward, suddenly and sharply, and his voice dropped into something dangerously close to a growl. “I mean it, Lecter. She’s not a project. She’s not a puzzle. If you so much as make her doubt herself again, I’ll find you.” 

Hannibal’s expression didn’t change, but something behind his eyes glinted - something amused, or perhaps appreciative. 

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he said smoothly. “And I give you my word, Will. I will treat her with the care and honesty she deserves.” 

“God help you if you don’t.” Will let out a long breath through his nose.

Just then, the back door creaked again. (y/n) stepped in with a smile and a wagging retriever at her heels. 

“Did I miss anything?” She asked, grabbing the last bit of grilled cheese from the plate.

Will glanced at Hannibal, who offered a faint smile. 

“Not at all,” Hannibal said, gaze softening as it landed on her. “We were just discussing dinner.” 

“Oh?” (y/n) blinked. “Are you staying?” 

“If you’ll have me,” Hannibal replied, voice velvet smooth. 

“Only if you help with the dishes.” 

Behind the two of them, Will sighed into his hands.

Dinner was warm in the way few things ever were in Will Graham’s house - cluttered with lazy dogs beneath the table, plates scraped clean, and conversation that flowed easier than expected. Hannibal offered to dry while (y/n) washed, which earned him a baffled look from Will and a smile from her.

Eventually, Will excused himself to his room with a grumble about early lectures and too many German Shepard hogging his blankets. (y/n) rolled her eyes, throwing a dish towel at him as he disappeared down the hall. 

Now, the porch light buzzed quietly overhead as she walked Hannibal out into the crisp Virginia evening. His car gleamed under the dim glow, and the silence between the two of them stretched into a comfortable way.

“Thank you for coming by,” she said, hugging her arms against the cool air. “You’re not exactly what I expected.” 

“Is that a good thing?” he asked, pausing beside the driver’s door. 

(y/n) laughed softly. “It’s … something.” 

The wind picked up slightly, rustling the trees in Will’s yard. She tilted her head up to meet Hannibal’s gaze, his eyes calm and unreadable in the low light.

And before she could stop herself, before she even thought about stopping herself, she stood on her tippy toes and pressed her lips to his.

Just a soft kiss. Barely a whisper of contact. But when she pulled away, Hannibal didn’t move. 

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly, stepping back. “That was … I promise I don’t usually do things like that. That was impulsive. It won’t happen again.” 

Hannibal studied her for a beat too long. “Why not?” 

She blinked. “Because I don’t know what I’m doing. Because you’re intimidating. Because Will would probably kill you if he found out what just happened even though I kissed you.”

“All fair reasons,” Hannibal replied thoughtfully. “But none of that persuades me.” 

“Of course not.” She huffed a light, eyes darting down the driveway.

“I find your impulsiveness charming,” he said taking a small step forward - not close enough to crowd her, but just enough to feel the gravity of him again. “And I’d like to see you again. Properly.” 

She tilted her head, searching his expression. “Are you asking me out?”

“Yes.”

“Even after that weird little kiss and awkward apology?”

“Especially after that.” 

“This feels like a bad idea.” She bit her lip, considering. 

Many of the best things in life do,” Hannibal replied smoothly.

The corners of her mouth turned up despite herself. “Only if I get to choose where we eat. And it better not be anything with a wine list longer than the menu.”

“I’ll allow it,” he said with a faint smile.

(y/n) nodded before heading back toward the front door. She passed and then glanced back over her shoulder, “Hey, Hannibal?” 

“Yes?”

“That kiss? It might;ve been impulsive … but I didn’t hate it.” 

His smile deepened, just barely.

“Neither did I.” 

And with that, she disappeared inside, heart beating faster than she’d ever admit - even to Will.

[spicyvampire]

This shit is still so fucking funny from Tong's pov man, Imagine you are Tong & it's your 2nd day outside like ever, and after stalking you for 20 years, kidnapping you, forcing you to go live with him, and weirdly smelling you during dinner, your vampire bodyguard tells u to run cuz the guitar he gave u fucking cut u and he about to go hannibal lecter on you, only for you to run directly into a vampire cop and then your vampire bodyguard comes and takes care of that but he gets shot and apparently vampires aren't invincible to bullets (?) and he is fucking dying and won't drink you special blood but then your sweat or whatever falls on his face and he start glowing, like that time he taste ur blood & immediately came in his pants back when you first met, and now he is healed apparently and the first thing he says after coming back from the death is "how you doing lil mama what's your bodylotion cuz you smell bodylicious", and you are like bitch what the fuck did Edward Cullen cum in his pants again cuz of my sweat or was this strictly healing based, how the fuck does any of this work and then he ask you to still move in with him and it's like what the hell, sure

[honeygrahambitch]

"Now there are two things we can do." Brian said and looked at Beverly and Jimmy. "We tell Tim that Will is in a relationship or we let Tim be delusional just so we can see Dr. Lecter being jealous right in front of us."

"Tim from the HR department?" Jimmy asked a bit lost. "I go on vacation for once and I miss all the drama."

"Basically, this guy Tim is fruity." Beverly explained. "He's been visiting the lab for all kinds of stupid reasons only to interact with Will or to ask us about Will."

"Why didn't you tell him? He's taken for life."

"That's exactly what I was telling you two just now. We could tell him or we could see what happens." Brian went on. "Imagine being Will and having two men fight for you."

"Are you jealous, Z?" Beverly asked, making Brian scowl.

"No one is fighting for Will, Hannibal has already won."

"He has but does he seem to be the type to accept other people flirting with his hubby?" Jimmy asked rhetorically.

"That's a different story, you wouldn't want to see a man flirt with your wife either."

"Dr. Lecter is consulting on the case today. If we are lucky, Tim will come by. The funniest part is that Will is completely oblivious to his attempts."

*

"The victims not only have the eye colour in common. That was supposed to throw us off." Will said thoughtfully as he looked at the three bodies. "It's something else."

"We ran all the tests. Nothing similar." Jimmy replied.

"I mean, they did have the same blood type." Beverly added. "They are all B negative."

"I suggest you all find something more specific than that, we are not about to tell people to stay indoors if they have green eyes and the B negative blood type." Jack demanded a bit too impatiently. "Doctor?"

Hannibal was reading the case file just as Beverly was handing him the report following their tests. "We will find it, Jack." He replied not even lifting his glance but reassuringly enough for Jack to be satisfied.

The door of the lab opened and everyone moved their glance towards the visitor.

"Oh, hi, sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

As soon as everyone noticed it was Tim, their attention went back to the case file. Brian elbowed Jimmy subtly but not discreet enough for Hannibal to miss it. What he didn't miss was also the fact that this man who had just entered smelled really cheap.

"I hope I'm not intruding, I will be real quick."

Jack rolled his eyes. "What, Tim? What is it? Unless you solve this case I don't want to know."

Tim turned his head away from the dead bodies, visibly horrified. "I...sorry, no, not my domain. Unless they are trying to apply for a job here." He said and laughed awkwardly.

The joke made everyone in the room eye him at the same time, in a way that made Tim wish for the earth to swallow him.

"Anyway...I brought Will a coffee."

Hannibal flipped the page loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear it. "There is not sufficient information on the third victim. No medical history." He said as he watched the man hand Will the cup of coffee.

He gave Beverly a questioning glance. If anyone in that lab knew what was going on, she was the one. She shrugged awkwardly.

"We couldn't contact any relative of the last victim yet. That is why a lot of information is missing." Will explained. "Thanks'." He said absently as he accepted the cup of coffee.

Tim smiled widely, making Brian bite his own tongue in an attempt not to laugh.

"I like your shirt." Tim blurted out just like a teen who has been practicing the whole morning in front of the mirror.

Will was not phased, he was so focused on the third body that he didn't even hear the remark.

"I do too, I got it for him." Hannibal replied, making all the eyes in the room go to him. To Hannibal, that was never something to intimidate him. On the contrary. "It matches his eye color."

Brian kicked Jimmy again almost making him lose his balance.

However the most precious view in the room was the way Tim's face paled instantly. Out of pure stupidity, he tried to feed his own delusion and went on to ask:

"Aren't you Will's psychiatrist?" He had to convince himself that handsome man was nothing more than that.

Hannibal appreciated the poor thing for doing his homework. Although not completely.

This time Brian could not hold back his laughter, earning a punch in the shoulder from Jimmy.

Jack sighed loudly in his habitual "why can we never focus on the case" manner and didn't even make an effort to explain anything. "Please return to the HR office if you are done."

Hannibal made a mental note. Tim from HR. It was just as good as a business card. "Not anymore. Fact which makes buying clothes for my husband completely ethical."

Will lifted an eyebrow subtly.

"I didn't know Will was married." Tim mumbled taken aback, his heart and spirit visibly breaking.

"Will didn't know either." Will replied. "But I suppose I'm as good as married, indeed." He added thoughtfully before looking at one particular detail on each body.

"How does this discussion help us solve the case?" Jack asked, the frustration visible on his face.

"It does, in fact. If you check the victims you will notice they each wear the same ring. If you trace that back to the jewelry shop they got it from, we will have a new lead."

"I should have Tim in the lab more often." Jack said, pleased by the new connection.

"I don't think I will ever be able to come by. I don't like being led on." Tim said and left the room, making Brian almost choke.

"Who was that?" Will asked when he heard the door of the lab. "And how did I end up with this coffee?"

[ni-idea-07]

Hello! Can I please request a oneshot featuring a romantic yandere Hannigram x female reader. In this scenario, the reader has already been kidnapped and feels more fear towards Will than Hannibal. While she is certainly afraid of Hannibal, her fear of Will is heightened because he brings back memories of her abusive father. Please don’t feel pressured to fulfill this request if it doesn’t spark your creativity. Take care!

TW: Yandere content, kidnapping, obsession, traumatic memories. Mentions of child abuse. Non-consensual body swap.

Sorry if it's short, I hope you like it. Sorry for taking so long.

-------

You're not like him, you're worse.

The air in the room is thick, heavy with a mix of old wood, books, and something more metallic. You don't dare identify it. You're sitting in an oak chair, your hands tied on either side of the armrests. You'd tried to attack Hannibal, but they stopped you just in time.

Now your skin was marked by the constant friction of the restraints.

The seconds stretch like centuries while you wait. You have no idea how long you've been here. The only certainty you have is that they're close. That they're watching you.

Hannibal stands by the window, serene as ever, a glass of wine in his hand. His presence is unsettling, but it's Will who truly makes your skin crawl. He's leaning against the wall, his head tilted slightly, watching you with those sharp blue eyes that seem to dissect every part of your being.

It's not that Hannibal doesn't scare you. He does, of course. It's like being in the same room as a sleeping lion. But Will... Will is something else. There's something about the way he looks at you, the way his fingers twitch as if he's holding back. He's the one who makes you tremble, who brings back memories you'd buried years ago.

Memories of a raspy voice calling your name, of heavy footsteps approaching angrily, of hands that gripped your arm too tightly. Your father had tortured you throughout your childhood and adolescence.

And Will reminded you of him.

Always so serious, when he touched you, his grip was strong enough that you could feel it even after several hours.

–"Are you comfortable?"– Hannibal asks, his voice soft, as if you hadn't tried to stab him with a knife just an hour ago. His tone is so polite, so warm, it feels like a stab wrapped in velvet.

You don't respond. You don't want to give him that power.

Will pushes away from the wall, his boots echoing on the wooden floor like a macabre metronome. Every step he takes makes your stomach twist. He stops right in front of you and crouches down, level with you. He studies you silently, too close. You can smell the leather of his jacket, and the faint scent of the cheap soap he uses.

–"Why did you try?"– he murmurs. –"Did you think you could hurt him?"

There's something dangerous in his tone, something that wasn't there before. It's not just suppressed anger anymore. It's disappointment, it's possessiveness, it's that sick need for control you recognize all too well.

His fingers slowly rise to your face. You tremble. Not because of the cold. Not because of the pain of the restraints. But because you know exactly what's coming next. Because you've been through this before. Because Will doesn't yell at you. He doesn't hit you. But his presence crushes you.

–"You don't have to be afraid of him"– he says, his eyes boring into yours. –"I'm the one who can't control myself."

A confession disguised as a threat.

You shrink as far as you can into the chair, but there's nowhere to run. Hannibal simply watches, taking a contemplative sip of wine. As if this were a sight he's seen a hundred times before.

–"Don't push her too hard, Will"– he finally says, like someone speaking to a puppy that's biting too hard. –"Remember, she breaks easily."

Will doesn't respond. He touches your cheek with the backs of his fingers. Almost tenderly.

And you, silently, just wish the sleeping lion would wake up. Because if Hannibal is the monster under the bed, Will is the one who sits on your chest while you sleep, whispering to you that there's no escape.

Your breathing becomes erratic. You know you're in the present, that you're tied to a chair in Hannibal Lecter's house, but your body doesn't understand. Memory asserts itself like a thick tide, dragging you along without permission.

You remembered the door slamming shut. The squeak of his keys hitting the kitchen table was the cue. How he gave you exactly 40 seconds to hide. Not because they were playing hide-and-seek. But because that was the routine. The only strategy that ever worked.

But it never worked for long.

–"Where are you, brat?"– growled that voice, broken by tobacco and alcohol, the same one that called you "princess" only when it wanted you to stop crying too loudly.

You remembered the burning in your wrists as he dragged you out of the closet. The creaking of the belt between his fingers. The metallic smell that lingered in the air, just like the one in this room.

Will grabbed your jaw, strong as ever. His eyes stared into yours.

The fear you feel toward him isn't rational. It's physical. It settles at the base of your neck, in the trembling of your knees, in the sour taste in your mouth.

–"Are you remembering something, Y/N?"– Will asks you, almost sweetly.

You don't answer. You can't. Because if you speak, that fragile barrier between your past and this new hell will break.

Will smiles, and for a second, the gesture makes your skin crawl more than any threat. Not because he's kind.

But because it's identical to the one your father used when he said, "This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me."

–"Leave it to me, dear."

The doctor approaches elegantly, placing the wineglass on a nearby table. His steps are silent. Like an animal that learned to walk silently long before it learned to speak.

He leans toward you, his eyes boring into yours.

–"I offered you hospitality, and you responded with violence"– he says calmly. –"But I'm not unfair. I'll give you a second chance."

A small spark of hope ignites. Idiot. You still have that obsession with believing you can get out of this alive.

–"However"– he adds, slowly straightening. –"second chances always come with a punishment."

Will stays in the shadows, watching. Like a well-trained dog, waiting for the command. He doesn't seem bothered. On the contrary. He's excited. You can see it in the way he bites the inside of his cheek. In the way his pupils tremble slightly.

–"Do you know what the most important thing is in a punishment, y/n?"– Hannibal asks, taking something from the drawer next to the bookcase. You can't see what it is. –"It's not the pain. It's the lesson."

When he returns to your side, he shows you what he's holding: a small carved wooden box. He opens it with almost ritualistic delicacy. Inside are scalpels. Small, clean blades, arranged by size. Like pieces in a macabre game.

You struggle to breathe.

–"I'm not going to kill you"– he says with that chilling calm. –"I'm not even going to disfigure you. But I want you to remember. That every time you think about running away or attacking us, your body feels it before your mind."

Will takes a step forward. He kneels in front of you.

–"Let me do it"– he says. –"She knows me. She knows it'll hurt more if it's me."

And there it is again. That look of yours. That silent plea that does nothing. Because there are no heroes in this room.

Only two monsters.

And you. The girl who could never escape.

–"In these 8 months, you've tried to escape 4 times, Y/N"– he began, grabbing one of your hands and caressing the veins in your wrists –"our duty is to keep you safe and... for us."

Will cut the tendons in the hand he was holding. It hurt, it hurt so much, and you wanted to run away.

But you couldn't. They didn't amputate you. But you lost all ability to move your fingers, and therefore, you also lost all ability to run away.

-----------

Hi! Yes, I know it's been a while since I posted anything, and I wanted to apologize for that. I'll try to write more often.

Thanks for reading.

Interactions and reblogs are appreciated and encouraged.

Requests are open. Leave me your request, and I will be happy to fulfill it.

[dilfdemolisher]

ETERNAL - Hannibal Vampire AU

Summary: Recently turned by your physiatrist after being found on the brink of death causes more then emotional turmoil when you can no longer fight the feeling of hunger - Comments and critiques are encouraged.

Content Warning: DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, cannibalism, gore, it's implied the reader attempted suicide, suicidal thoughts, manipulation, implied death

Word Count: 1.4k

You shake your head in disbelief. “This is ridiculous. I did not consent to this.” 

He smiles, “This specifically? No, but you did consent to be bitten. It is not my fault you are regretting your choice.” 

You cannot stand his smug satisfaction that he draws from your discomfort. 

“I wasn’t given full specifics of what this would entail, and I was vulnerable and incoherent. Someone on the brink of death doesn't understand things clearly.” 

He steps closer; you can’t help but tense at his body nearing yours. "You said yes because you trusted me, and why should you stop now?” His chilly hand cups your own cold cheek. 

Everything is so firm, as you’ve noticed since you turned. It makes you so inhuman that you’ll never get to appreciate warmth again—no hot baths, no more feeling the sun’s heat on your skin. You are now chained to a cold castle, inhabited by a cold, cruel man. 

“You transformed me into a monster; you’re the last thing I’d ever want to be, and you’ve cursed me with just that.” You insult while looking into his eyes. It’s hard to believe you once admired him as an intelligent, handsome man. But now, when you look into him, you understand what a dark, hollow man he is inside. 

His nails dig into your cheek slightly. You feel that he should pierce through your skin, but despite the pain blooming, your cheek stays taught, and no puncture wounds form. 

The physicality of your transformation continues to surprise you. The cold skin that covers your body reminds you of porcelain in a sense; it’s impossible to damage without shattering, causing complete destruction. 

Nevertheless, you are persistent in your standing. “I was your patient; it was your goal to keep me sane. You failed and corrected your mistakes, once too late.” 

After stealing a moment to observe you, he pulls away. “You’ll cave much sooner than you expect; I can already smell your hunger.” He says before walking away, leaving you alone with your thoughts and drying throat. 

Hannibal was right. You’re caving. 

At first, your mind started reeling at the ways you could most ethically eat. But it didn’t take long for morality to leave you alone, perpetually cold and hungry. 

The noise in your brain is consuming you and is now too loud to ignore. It claws at your stomach and mind; it didn’t take long for you to start wailing. You falsely assumed you could go much longer without eating, like a reptile or spider. But it’s only been days since you’ve turned and hunger is crawling out of your throat in desperate cries.

Your bedroom door opens; it’s odd to call it that. It’s just a room in Hannibal's house with a bed, nightstand, and bookshelf—a place that should be cozy. But it’s not like you sleep in it. It's simply a space with four walls to wallow about your stolen death.

“I have something for you.” You hear his voice say. You are too exhausted to even acknowledge his presence. You don’t want a gift; you want to die.

He sighs, you hear him step closer to the bed in which you lay. “She’s unconscious, she won’t know a thing.” 

When his attempt to soothe isn’t met with a single sound of recognition. He places a hand on your cheek, guiding your eyes to his. “She’s going to die either way, you can eat while she’s unconscious or I can devour her while she writhes.” 

You could say no; you could shake your head and beg for a rat, you’d even morally compromise for a cat. But you’re so hungry.

An image of a woman drained and pale, fragile and lifeless that your head conjures does nothing but give you the energy you need. “Please.”

“Then come,” he smiles, holding his hand out to you. 

Shakily, you rise. His hand stays firm on your lower back as he guides you into the living area. 

And there she is, the human you’ll steal their life from, her future, her life, her love. All to be greedily swallowed by you. 

Hannibal watches your reaction closely, the intensity of his gaze piercing through the dimly lit room. You can feel his satisfaction, his anticipation. The human lies motionless on the couch, her chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic manner. She’s so fragile, so warm. You catch the faint scent of her blood, a scent that suddenly fills the room, sharper and sweeter than anything you’ve ever known.

Your throat tightens, a raw, burning sensation that pulses through you with every breath. You step closer, feet moving of their own accord. The hunger gnaws at you, each step a battle between what’s left of your humanity and the predator you've become.

Hannibal’s voice breaks through the haze. “You’re fighting yourself, but why? This is what you are now. Accept it, and the pain will subside.”

His words dig into you like knives. You hate him for it. Hate him for turning you, for binding you to this monstrous existence. But most of all, you hate him for being right. The hunger is unbearable, an insatiable craving that dominates every thought, every fiber of your being. You clench your fists, your nails biting into the skin of your palms, but the pain does nothing to distract you from the scent of the blood calling to you.

Hannibal steps closer, his breath cold against your ear. “She’s yours. Take her.”

You close your eyes, trying to remember who you were before this nightmare. But those memories feel distant, slipping through your grasp like sand. All you can feel is the hunger, a relentless, throbbing need that clouds everything else. You open your eyes, staring at the woman lying before you, her life hanging by a thread. It would be so easy, just one bite, and the hunger would be gone.

You lower yourself beside her, hands trembling as they hover above her throat. Her pulse is steady, the sound of her heartbeat deafening in your ears. Your fangs ache, desperate to sink into her soft, warm skin. You hesitate, but Hannibal’s presence looms behind you, his shadow pressing you forward.

“You don’t have to suffer,” he whispers.

With a gasp, you lean forward, your lips brushing her neck. The warmth of her skin against yours sends a jolt of electricity through your body, and before you can stop yourself, your fangs pierce her flesh. The rush of blood fills your mouth, hot and intoxicating, more powerful than anything you could have imagined.

For a brief, terrible moment, everything else fades away. The guilt, the shame, the hatred—it all melts into nothing as the hunger is sated. The warmth spreads through your body, filling you with a twisted sense of satisfaction. You drink deeply, feeling her life drain away with every pull, her heartbeat growing fainter as she rushes down your throat.

But then, something shifts inside you. The realization of what you're doing, of what you’ve become. You pull back, breath ragged, her blood still staining your lips. The woman lies there, pale and barely breathing, her life slipping through your fingers. You look down at her, horrified by what you've done, by what you are.

Hannibal is beside you, watching with that same smug smile. "You see now, don’t you?" he says, voice laced with dark satisfaction.

You stumble away from the woman, the taste of her blood still clinging to your tongue. “I don’t want this,” you whisper, but the words feel hollow, meaningless; you know you’ll want it again. The hunger never truly goes away. It’s always lurking, always waiting for the next moment of weakness.

Hannibal steps closer, placing a hand on your shoulder. "The sooner you accept what you are, the easier it will be. You’re free now—free from the limitations of mortality, free from the weaknesses that once held you back."

You shake your head, backing away from him. His smile fades, replaced by something darker, more dangerous. "You’ll learn in time, the gift I’ve given you" he says quietly.

Without another word, he turns and leaves the room, his footsteps echoing in the emptiness. You're left standing there, trembling, staring down at the fragile life you’ve just torn apart.

[hannibals-grahamcracker]

Hannibal for the headcanons!

Omg Serri hiiiii!!

Okay so my headcanons for Hannibal:

A: realistic.

Hannibal doesn't particularly care about sex until he and Will are officially together. He's always used it as a manipulation tactic, a way for him to get ahead, and with the men he's been with in the past (because let's be realistic, that man couldn't give less of a fuck about his sexual partners' gender or sex), he's always taken the role of the top because it's the role others naturally assume for him, and what better way to get ahead and lower suspicion than by playing into the role someone already thinks you play? Will changes this, because Will is focused on both of their pleasure (most of the time—he does sometimes have a sadistic streak and we love him for it), he doesn't assume anything about Hannibal's sexual habits. Hannibal actually enjoys sex with Will; he doesn't have to play into a preconceived notion of how he's supposed to act and it's one of the areas of life in which he's learned to let go and give over his control to Will. The first time Will initiated anything sexual, Hannibal found it shockingly easy to let him have control. Turns out he quite likes being a bottom. Who knew? (All of us, we all knew.)

B: maybe not realistic but funny.

We know that Hannibal doesn't like Will's aftershave and thinks it's atrocious. My proposal to you is that he does like it (because it smells like Will and I'm delusional), and his little quip about Will wearing bad aftershave was to save face because he had a slip up and refuses to admit that smelling Will was weird. He needed an excuse and by god, that man commits to the bit. He is nothing if not dedicated.

C: heart-crushing and awful but fun to inflict on friends.

Hannibal obviously has deep-seated trauma regarding his sister and what happened to her, although he refuses to admit it. In the show, he says he ate her to forgive her. I headcanon that the reality of the situation is that they were held hostage by Soviet deserters (closer to his original backstory and also because his childhood would have been spent in Soviet occupied Lithuania), who starved both he and Mischa, then proceeded to take her from him, kill her, and eat her. He convinces himself that he made the choice to eat her instead of being delirious from hunger and illness and being forcibly fed her remains via soup. He knows this isn't true, but it's something he can't admit to himself, because that would mean that his entire philosophy on cannibalism as forgiveness and honor/love is flawed, and that he was at a point in his life not in control of the world around him. When he got away, he aimlessly wandered through the blizzard raging outside before being found and taken in, then rightfully returned to the custody of his uncle. As an adult, he learned to cope with his loss and his fear of harsh winters. Until the fall. Both he and Will obviously suffered damages in the fall; Hannibal suffers from a mild to moderate traumatic brain injury and has to learn to cope with this. He no longer has as much control over his mental barriers and therefore cannot reasonably keep certain doors closed in his mind palace. No matter how much he managed to convince himself otherwise before, he remembers what actually happened to him every time it snows more than a few inches. He insists that Will can't go out during snow storms, under the guise of it being unwise because they're on the run and if he gets stuck in the storm and someone recognizes him, they may as well be dead. The one time Will does leave, he returns home to find Hannibal nearly catatonic, unable to speak more than a few words in his native language. Will has obviously noticed changes in Hannibal's personality, especially his ability to hide his emotions, but he's so shaken by this that he refuses to leave Hannibal alone if it so much as flurries.

D: unrealistic, but I will disregard canon about it.

Post-fall, Hannibal is basically a glorified housewife. He cooks, cleans, and looks pretty for Will, and it's his greatest pleasure in life. He buys anything Will wants, and does whatever is asked of him simply because he can.

[princelysnape]

What kind of kinks do you think sneep would have? Would he be more vanilla? Or would he be a dom daddy with multiple kinks he'd want to try with his partner?

And... please don't judge me. I'm ovulating right now tehe 🤭🙃

i would never judge you, anon. god knows i'm not in a position to point fingers lmao

before we can discuss what kinks i think severus can possibly have, first let me acknowledge that 1) whatever desires sev may or may not have, he probably doesn't have sophisticated names for them (as previously established, the wizarding world stopped evolving in the middle ages; they're conservative and repressed), and 2) this man is extremely untrusting of others, insecure and sexually inexperienced (if he was a virgin or not by the time of his death, it's still something i'm contemplating about; ask me again in a few weeks, and i'll give you an definitive answer)

so from this alone we can presume that, yes, by definition severus must be quite vanilla. he's not seeking out people to be kinky with, simply because he's not seeking out anyone at all lmao. i mean, i guess that could change if he was to enter a stable romantic relationship with someone who's into the same things as him. it's not completely out of the realm of possibility. still, it seems rather unlikely given the time period and severus' own trauma towards intimacy and just sheer sexual repression

that's not to mean he doesn't have fantasies and desires considered out of the norm though. he does, but it's something that only exists in the depths of his mind, yes? i think he would have trouble accepting any kind of loss of control over his body and mind, especially if we're talking about his sexuality. besides, not everyone is open minded and "woke" enough to understand that having depraved and perverted thoughts doesn't necessarily make you depraved and perverted

so yeah, technically, he's not very kinky at all

HOWEVER, just because severus can't name or recognize his kinks by what they are, doesn't mean they're not real. have you ever heard of linguistic relativity? it refers to the idea that the language one speaks can influence the way they think. so if you don't have the words for something, a definition, then it's not a thing. it's not a valid concept worth thinking about seriously, and that's what happens to severus in regards to his kinks

okay, so this is getting way too fucking long to such a silly goofy ask, so let's go to the list:

voyeurism. i said this before and i will say it again: you can't be a good legilimens if you're not curious about people's secret thoughts and ideas. you have to want to know, and you have to like having the knowledge even if you don't like the knowledge itself. also, the guy was a literal spy. he thrives on knowing intimate things about people. oh, prince, but what does that have to do with anything???? BITCH, don't suppress the artist. this shit has to bleed over to other parts of his life, it's what i mean—there's no fucking way it doesn't. are you telling me he never caught a stray sexual fantasy out of someone's mind? are you telling me he never jerked off to the sound of his classmates jerking off in the slytherin dorms? are you telling me that during his gig as a spy, wandering around the manors of sexually repressed dark wizards, he never got an eyeful? please

olfactophilia. scent kink, basically. it's one of my headcanons that severus has a very acute sense of smell, weirdly so. like, imagine hannibal lecter being able to literally smell out sickness, that's severus snape. he's not really into fetid smells though, it's more of a natural body smell thing. some people say it's a pheromones thing, who knows. but give him your working out clothes and he'll masturbate with them on his face. i know this dude is into licking armpits, but i just can't prove it—

underwear fetish. panty sniffer. i'm sorry, but it's true. and yeah, it's the smell thing again, but it's also the inherently intimate nature of panties in general. i mean, your underwear is constantly cupping your bits and i feel like this is a thought severus would obsess over every time he sees someone's underwear (which, admittedly, isn't very often). also, have you ever watched call me by your name? there's a scene where elio puts on oliver's shorts and masturbates while wearing them. now that's severus snape

degradation/praise kink. this one will make enemies, i know, but hear me out. do i think severus enjoys being called names during sexy times? no, absolutely not. he will get upset, angry and insecure wondering if there's an edge of truth to your words. so no calling him a "slut". but i also do think he can enjoy it in a very specific way. if you use a softly mocking and condescending tone of voice while simultaneously praising him, this man is done for. say he's desperate or pathetic, and also call him "love" or "honey" and he's putty in your hands (needless to say, this isn't something you can just throw at him or he'll hex you to hell—baby steps)

humiliation kink. again, only under very specific circumstances where there's no actual risk of being humiliated for real. probably not even involving another human being at all, just him alone. maybe he imagines himself jerking off or having sex in front of the death eaters and the dark lord or he uses a pensive to see his own performance during sex (if you know, you know lmao) and the cringe makes him hot for some fucking reason. maybe it's because he's the one in control of the narrative so that's sexy for him, who knows🤷🏾‍♀️well, i probably should know since this is my post, but sometimes i work with vibes only, guys. i do stand by this though

exhibitionism. but like, a passive sort of exhibitionism if that makes sense. a dormant sort of exhibitionism only activated when he's aware he's being watched and the person who's watching him is also aware he's watching them. it can't be a sneaky thing, or that'll turn him off

bondage. but don't think you'll be the one tying him up because that just won't happen. yes, i think he could be into the idea of tying up his partner. of just having them completely at his mercy. he probably wouldn't even know what to do at first, but that's not really the point. it's a trust thing for him. if you trust him enough to let him restrain you like this, then that must mean you really love him and is unafraid of him. which is an honor, really. hypocritical? maybe, but you try getting hanged upside down to see if you can trust anyone restraining you ever again

soft dom/domme. you asked if i thought severus would be the type of being a daddy dom and the answer is no. honestly, i can't see him being very dominant in bed at all. but i can imagine someone doing it to him. would his person be his dominant in a official way? also, no. i think it would sneak up on them; a dynamic where severus has a partner who's "bossy", assertive and decisive and severus would just let them take the wheel sometimes. and not always sexually either. they would make sure he eats, sleeps, go out etc, and he would agree with minimal grumbling because it just feels easier having someone telling you what to do. i mean, he already has two masters, what's another one?

yeah, i think that's it for now. i hope this was... something🙂‍↔️

[cece693]

I just like Hannibal crying...is that weird?? Like, there's just something beautifully poetic about this monstrous man who is still able to feel and show those emotions, in the face of something that does move him. Anyway, I just wanted to write something with a sad Hannibal and couldn't help myself. Be prepared, it's long and sad.

EVEN DEATH CANNOT SEPARATE US

pairing: hannibal lecter x gender neutral reader tags: sad ending, both characters are dead, you actually have a terminal illness, it's not specific though, use your imagination, hannibal dies because he can't fathom to continue living without you, I like how this turned out, mention of afterlife

The Baltimore townhouse is hushed in the late-winter dusk, firelight peeling slow amber across mahogany paneling and half-empty bookcases. It smells of eucalyptus and polished leather and, faint beneath it all, the sterile sweetness of the morphine drip that follows you now like a last, reluctant valet.

You sit in one of the Hepplewhite wing-backs, quilt tucked around your shoulders. Every motion has become deliberate: you fold your hands, you breathe, you listen to the crackle of cedar. Hannibal kneels at your feet to adjust the quilt as though it were ceremonial—perhaps it is. He smooths the fabric over your knee, tracing the bones beneath, catalogue-careful, a man committing sacred anatomy to memory.

“You should save that strength,” you murmur; your voice is frayed silk.

“So should you,” he counters, but the words lack their usual lattice of irony. When he looks up, his eyes are almost fever-bright. He is not wearing a suit tonight—only a dark cashmere sweater whose sleeves bunch at the elbows—and the small untidiness feels indecent, a bare throat in church.

A strand of silver hair has fallen forward. You lift a trembling hand to tuck it behind his ear. “I’m not afraid, Hannibal.”

“I know.” His fingers circle your wrist to steady you; the gentleness burns. “Neither am I.”

You could tell him he’s lying, but you don’t. Fear is too small a word for what lives behind his composure. He is a creature accustomed to eternity—cultivating it in cellars, plating it in crystal bowls—yet here you sit, proof that time can still spoil the very finest cut. That discovery terrifies him more than death ever could.

“Come here,” you say.

He rises, settles on the ottoman so your knees bracket his ribs. Your pulse drums weakly under his palm. The fire pops and a coal collapses—soft thunder, like applause heard from behind velvet curtains. Hannibal’s gaze drifts to the hearth; when he speaks again his voice is hoarse, low:

“Does it hurt?”

“It already does. Not in ways morphine can touch.” You give a rueful smile. “But that’s all right. Hurt means I’m still here with you.”

A muscle leaps in his jaw. “And when you are not?”

“Then the hurt is yours.” You skim his cheek with your thumb, feel the heat of unshed tears there—Hannibal Lecter, whose eyes have witnessed rivers of blood without once watering, and yet for you... The first tear breaks, slow as syrup. It charts a shining course along the fine line of his nose and drops to your quilt. Another follows. He doesn’t wipe them away; he lets them fall the way one allows candles to gutter after guests depart—a sign that the evening, at last, is over.

You try to memorize the sight: the tremor in his lower lip, the wet lashes, the velvet darkness of his irises. You realize you are smiling. “Beautiful,” you whisper.

He bows his head until his brow meets the back of your hand. “This is unbecoming.”

“It’s the most becoming thing I’ve ever seen you do.” Your lungs tighten; you rest, catching breath. Hannibal’s tears soak your skin, warm, startling. “Promise me something.”

“Anything.”

“Live. Live like you always do—gloriously, shamelessly. Don’t pickle yourself in grief. I wouldn’t stand for that.”

He lifts his head. “You would haunt me?”

“Relentlessly.”

A ghost of a smile touches his mouth, and you see the man you met years ago—the impeccable host with jokes folded between syllables like origami knives. Now the knife is turned inward. “Very well,” he says. “I will live. But I will not love.”

“You will,” you assure him, “because loving me taught you how. Even if you hate it, the lesson’s learned.” Your eyes sting; vision doubles. “And I’ll go knowing I moved an immovable heart.”

Silence settles, thick and reverent. Hannibal slips from the ottoman to the rug, drawing your hand to his lips. He doesn’t kiss it. Instead, he rests it over his own heart, as though he means to press it through flesh, through bone, lock it there before the beat stops beneath your ribs.

The townhouse remains hushed after the last ember fails, but something enormous and wordless ripples in its bones—a tectonic shift in the house’s cruel, curated stillness. Hannibal does not rise. He feels the thin weight of you cooling in his arms and discovers, with surgical clarity, that grief is a blade he cannot grip by the handle; it cuts no matter how delicately he holds it.

It is obscene, almost comical, that the Chesapeake Ripper should finally understand loss in so ordinary a fashion. All the elaborately posed corpses, all the aria-sweet deaths he has orchestrated, and here—when confronted with a passing as gentle as candle-smoke—he is undone.

Sadness was always a flavor he served to others. Now it coats the back of his own throat like ash. It has no elegance, no aesthetic potential; it is simply weight. It drags his ribs inward until every breath rasps. The house feels too voluminous, every hallway an echo chamber of absence. His monster’s brain chases solutions—taxonomies, distractions, new hungers to hunt—but they dangle uselessly, gutted of savor.

Hours slide apart from one another like pages warping in rain. He studies your face as rigor settles, committing each micro-contour to the cathedral of his memory. Then, slowly, he begins the rites:

He braids your fingers with his and speaks to you in unhurried Lithuanian lullabies remembered from childhood.

He wipes the last tears from your cheeks, then allows more of his own to fall and replace them—an unbroken exchange, grief for grief, salt for salt.

He refuses a physician, a coroner, any intrusion. Instead, he dresses you in the midnight-blue silk you once wore to the opera, fastens the pearl buttons with hands that suddenly shake, kisses each knuckle when the tremor threatens to snap a thread.

At dawn he carries you to the music room. Mahogany shutters filter new light across the Bösendorfer. He props your body against his chest, one arm beneath your shoulders, the other coaxing a final nocturne from the keys. The notes drag like chains—dense, deliberate—and in them Hannibal folds everything he cannot articulate: rage at his own helpless biology, reverence for your courage, the terrible privilege of watching fearlessness turn cold in his embrace.

By twilight he understands: living was your last command, but obedience has never been his native tongue. To remain here, breathing, is to endure a famine no feast can sate. The concept of years—a month, even a day—spinning forward without your pulse beside his is intolerable, a mathematical obscenity he refuses to solve.

“I will not outlast you,” he murmurs against your temple, voice raw as scraped violin strings. “I gave you my fullness—my darkness, my devotion. What remains is only residue.”

He imagines the simple choreography of a final dinner: crystal decanters reflecting candle-flame, the bouquet of a forty-year Barolo softening the air. There would be music—perhaps that very nocturne, recorded and looping, a hush between phrases like a held breath. And then—quiet, clinical—he will follow your path, matching your heartbeat’s last count with a dose measured to the milligram. An ending of his own composition, stitched neatly to the end of yours.

Before he executes the coda, he wraps you in a shroud of black cashmere and lowers you into the crypt beneath the townhouse, a space he once reserved for rarer vintages. Now, it becomes a sanctuary of two. He seals the room, presses his palm to the cool door, and speaks—not an operatic benediction, but a single, naked sentence that tastes of iron and farewell:

“Wait for me.”

And he knows you will.

When midnight returns, Hannibal ascends the spiral stairs, the house sighing underfoot like an old instrument retired from concert halls. In the dining room, he lights three candles—one for the life you lived, one for the life he spent beside you, and one for the small span that will soon join them.

The monster, at last, is no more afraid of death than you were, for death is only the corridor back to your side. Every other appetite pales. Every instinct of preservation folds, effortlessly, into hunger for reunion.

[ginho001]

hiiii bestiieee *pretend we're at a sleepover* tell me ur inhun headcanons ur currently obsessed with <3333

sleepover bestie I’m so sorry this took me days to reply to HORRID of me truly HORRID

in-ho’s nervous habit is biting on the inside of his cheek.

despite appearances, in-ho was actually the one who smoked pot in college. the hardest thing gi-hun is touched is liquor

sidenote to above but when in-ho finds this out they have a very sexually charged shotgunning session. (green courtesy of Thanos probably)

I like to think that like LJJ does irl, gi-hun constantly wrings his hands and fingers. However I think he does it while he’s idle. when he’s stressed he’s pretty still, we know from s1 he has the freeze response so boom evidence for ya

ok hear me out for this one chat but I think in-ho would have a tattoo. just a little one from an idiot time in college or like his late wife’s favorite flower or something, something he just slaps a bandage over in a bathhouse and is good. Maybe on his obliques or smth

as in-ho is a fan of reading, I think he is secretly a very big fan of heavily rehearsed and role-played sex things. for example like meeting gi-hun in a bar and acting like strangers and having a “one night stand” despite being married for like 3 yrs lmao.

alr gi-hun back to u hunny no u ain’t escaping me. I think gi-hun has a really sensitive nose. Like not hannibal lecter nose but like leftovers in the fridge that smell fine to in-ho gi-hun will throw away based on smell. Just a lil quirk he has 🤭 bc of this I think he has a lil bit of in-ho sweat kink he will take to the grave

gi-hun wears flowy shorts sometimes when he’s like mopping or cleaning shit and it looks like a skirt and short circuits in-ho’s brain

despite the show in s2 showing in-ho with virtually no fallout from the shoulder gunshot wound, I think realistically he would have some fallout from it considering his age. it’s not debilitating or anything for him, but when the weather changes or he grabs something a tad too heavy it flares up and hurts him. most the time he keeps it to himself but occasionally gi-hun catches it and treats him for the night w/ a hot bath and massage. in-ho is rlly not a big fan of this at first bc he’s so used to being the caretaker for his partners, but eventually he gets over it and when probed will just tell gi-hun if his shoulder is bugging him.

AND SLEEPOVER BESTIE. NOT THAT YOU ASKED BUT I HAVE SOME ABO ONES TO SHARE. these r a little more nsfw so if that’s not your thing dw about it and scroll! I’ll leave it under a cut ❤️

alpha or beta in-ho is valid to me. in my psycho abo head im a proponent of any bitch can get an omega pregnant idc.

gi-hun has fertility issues, i like to think because of overusing suppressants at some point in his life. all the more surprising for his geriatric ass when in-ho knocks him up 💀

gi-hun wasn’t really aware nests were supposed to take up as much space as he needed, so when in-ho walks into the bedroom one day when gi-hun’s in preheat, he like busts a gut laughing because gi-hun has built his nest on his side of the bed with like a very distinct pillow boundary. They figure it out after tho dw

In my world omega gi-hun has the gihussy and therefore he is a squirter. I said what I said. In-ho loves it idc what y’all say about NONE OF IT

after the 2nd games gi-hun doesn’t cut his hair again, and bc of that gihun baby always gets a hold of it and tugs. It drives him nuts but he can’t bear to cut it because the baby always laughs their head off abt it, which makes in-ho smile too.

in-ho, especially in the case that he’s an alpha, is a hovering nervous parent. Gi-hun has the experience of ga-yeong, but he doesn’t. He got so close to it but never quite got the opportunity, and for the first three months he can hardly let go of baby, he’s so scared something is going to take them away from him. he doesn’t express it verbally ever because he KNOWS he’s irrational, but gi-hun can always get a sense of when he walks in the room, sees gi-hun and baby and gets uneasy. at those times gi-hun always offers to let him hold, or if baby is eating to let him come and watch and support the hold. my precious fuckin babies all of em SOB.

anyways thank u pookies that is all for now ✌️ AGAIN IM SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY IN REPLY

[charliedawn]

So does this Peter won't cheat or?

(Cookie for the author 🍪)

GASP

GASP

Triple GASP

Cheating?!

CHEATING?!

Calling Peter Hannibal a cheater?

That’s not just a fight—that’s a heart-shattering catastrophe.

Because Peter isn’t just “in love” with you — he’s built his entire sense of self around the idea that he belongs to you. That he’s loyal, devoted, obsessed, and worthy because he chose you—and only you—over everyone. So the second you say it—even half-joking, even offhandedly—it’s like you just accused a starving dog of biting the hand that feeds it. You just told a knight in shining armor he betrayed his queen. You just told Peter Hannibal he isn’t yours anymore.

Tears. Immediate, overwhelming, hot. He’s crying before he can stop himself. Stuttering. “N-No, I would never—how could you—why would you even think that?” Physical collapse. Like his legs give out. He might sit on the floor, or crumple at your feet like a child who just got left behind. “I-I don’t even look at anyone else. I don’t talk to anyone else. I don’t want anyone else. I’m yours. I’m yours!”

Peter grabs your hands, eyes wild and soaked. “Is someone telling you lies? Is someone trying to take me from you? Did I do something wrong? Did I smile at someone too long? I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it, I swear—”

If you don’t stop him, he starts begging. “Please don’t leave me. Don’t be mad. Please—I’ll hurt them, I’ll hurt myself, I’ll never leave your side again, just don’t say that. Don’t say that again.”

He gets obsessed with the idea that he has to prove his loyalty. That you don’t trust him. That someone else has poisoned your view of him. And that means he’ll go dark. Obsessed with proving himself. Jealous over everyone you speak to. Acting like he’s constantly under trial—and that you’re the judge, jury, and executioner.

“I cleaned everything, I stayed in your room, I didn’t even talk to my brothers today — do you believe me now? Do you see how much I love you?”

The Other Hannibals Reactions:

Oh, you said it. You called Peter—the baby brother, the emotional one, the obsessive romantic—a cheater. And now his brothers are standing in the aftermath. Peter’s curled up somewhere, heartbroken, red-eyed, clutching a shirt that smells like you.

He’s been crying so hard he hiccups.

He keeps whispering, “But I didn’t do anything…I didn’t…I wouldn’t…”

You might’ve apologized.

You might not have.

But his brothers heard. And they’re coming for you.

Morgan Hannibal

“You really called Peter a cheater?”

His voice is calm. Too calm. He’s staring down at you with that clean, calculating gaze—the kind that could diagnose where to cut in one glance. “Let me guess. You were angry. Or testing him. Or jealous. Congratulations — you cracked his ribcage wide open.”

Morgan isn’t yelling.

That would be merciful.

He’s judging you with surgical precision—every word an incision.

“He doesn’t even look at anyone else. He’s like a dog that waits at the door all day for you. And you accused him of betrayal?” He steps closer. “Fix it. Fast. Or I will. And you’ll prefer his heartbreak to my idea of justice.”

Kevin Hannibal

Kevin finds you before you even know he’s coming. His footsteps are heavy. Angry. Paint still streaked across his arms, fists clenched at his sides.

“What the fuck did you just say to him?”

No calm. Just fire.

“I walk into the room and he’s on the goddamn floor, sobbing. Sobbing. Can’t even breathe. Because you—YOU—who he worships—called him a liar.”

He grabs a nearby vase—his own sculpture — and shatters it against the wall. “That’s what you did to him. That’s what you made him feel.”

He’s pacing now, yelling at the ceiling, tearing at his own hair. “He’s not built for this shit! He thinks if someone stops loving him, it means he doesn’t deserve to live. He’s not like us. You broke him.”

He turns, voice lower, deadly serious:

“Fix it. Or I’ll take it out of your hide. Got it, mate?”

Hannibal Jr.

Junior appears when everything is quiet.

After the chaos.

After the sobbing.

He doesn’t speak at first—just sits across from you and looks at you like a scholar examining a flawed experiment.

“You know what Peter is, don’t you?”

His voice is soft. But loaded.

“He’s the weakest of us. The softest. The one who still cries over books and gets shaky when he lies.” He leans forward. “And he’s also the most dangerous. Not because of what he’ll do. But because of what we’ll do for him.”

He folds his hands on the table.

“You hurt him. And if he asks us to—if he so much as whispers it—we’ll bury you so deep, the worms will ask who sent you.”

He tilts his head.

“So tell me. What are you going to do to make this right?”

Hannibal Sr. *searches for a kitchen knife*

Author: Yeah. You called Peter a cheater? Face the consequences. Even I cannot save you. But thank you for the cookie! Author happy. Author munch munch.

[coffee-in-rain]

Dead Dove idea under the cut because I was recently yapping about mermay with a moot.

warnings: dubious consent (between Will and Hannibal's mother because she is a siren and lures Will), father/son incestual themes, underage sex.

The year is 1702. Will is a fisherman and one day, a mermaid climbs onto the deck of his boat. The mermaid is whining something desperate; a siren in heat; and before he knows what's happening, his cock is hard and he's pushing into her. This lasts for a few hours; because she wants to catch; wants to be bred by a human see what happens. Then, she births a baby merboy; something that can live on land yet she's too protective; she wants Hannibal to remain in the ocean with her where it is safe.

Will understands Hannibal is his offspring; something not entirely human. He sees them on a weekly basis, makes sure they have fish if they're running low on food. He swims with them a few times a week, but Hannibal's mother is distant and falling in love with a merman; someone of her own species. Will doesn't mind at all. He knows they could never be a proper family. He cares for her because she is the mother of his offspring, but he loves Hannibal. Then one day, fifteen years later, blood is dancing along the surface of the water; something's been killed or attacked.

Will sees Hannibal swimming towards the dock. Afraid. Letting out something that sounds like a screeching cry. He's cut up, scratches on both arms. From defending himself. From something chasing him. Will lifts Hannibal out of the water and carries him home, where he'll be safe. Hannibal's mother is dead. Will understands without being told; can sense a solemn shift inside Hannibal. There are signs. Hannibal cannot speak, but he can make noises; and usually, little trills of contentment and excitement greet Will's ears when reaching the end of the dock; because Hannibal is happy to see Daddy; but now, Hannibal is clearly in distress—grieving; not wanting to eat much, but can be coaxed into eating by being hand-fed.

Hannibal is staying in the bath—always brimming with water because Will is worried about what'll happen if he dries out. Will learns sitting in the bathtub with him, holding him and offering comfort, is easing Hannibal's distress and separation anxiety—day by day. He is clingy—and Will doesn't tire of being needed because Hannibal is young and must feel lost without a mother. He isn't used to human things. Like being inside a house. Like only being able to shift in water instead of swimming freely. Like needing to sit in a running shower while Daddy cleans the bath where he's needed to use the bathroom (because he's used to expelling in the ocean without care). Like seeing a white light on a ceiling instead of the sun. Like sleeping alone in a bath instead of sleeping near mother.

But eventually, Will needs to return to work. He thinks Hannibal can understand English. He explains he'll be back soon. To stay in here. I love you.

Then, Will is gone and Hannibal grows curious and also a bit panicky. He wants Daddy. He soon slips out of the bathtub and realizes moving with a heavy tail is impossible. He stays on the bathroom floor until he's entirely dry. His tail soon transforms into legs. Like Daddy's. He crawls across the floor and into the bedroom. He sees a cat sleeping on something large and flat (a bed). The cat looks comfortable. He wants to join it and struggles to make it onto the bed. He starts shivering; something new. He doesn't know what to do because this is all new to him; being in a human's space and body. These plush squares (pillows) smell like Daddy and so does this thick cloth (bed covers). He stays there, marveling at the reality of having legs and feet. He doesn't know what's between his legs; what is covered in soft, spiraling curls; but it makes him feel a bit nervous to look or touch down there. Like something bad might happen. Like Daddy might get angry at him. He drifts off to sleep, shivering and wondering if Daddy is returning anytime soon.

He wakes up a while later. There is wetness everywhere. He thinks it's water, but it smells strong and sour. Daddy is removing the bed sheets and breathing a little weirdly. Daddy's cheeks are red, too. Daddy isn't looking at him. Soon, Daddy is folding up the thick cloth, disappearing with it and then returning empty-handed moments later.

Hannibal's stomach drops. Did he do something wrong? He realizes, eventually, what must've happened. He urinated while asleep because holding in urine is not expected when living in the ocean. He doesn't want to make Daddy angry. He doesn't want to lose Daddy, too.

But Daddy is sweet and reassuring, wiping away the mess on Hannibal's thighs, and hesitating (hand hovering in the air before lowering). Hannibal gasps, startling because a small wad of toilet paper and Daddy's fingers brush against a small pearl comprised of flesh and many tiny nerve-endings; something that twitches and begins to sitffen with steady pulses.