#hannibal x masc reader

[defectivevillain]

this broken design

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

summary:

“Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried. You quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

word count: 2.3k [ao3 version here]

Reader’s pronouns are unspecified but masc-intended. You take the place of Will Graham, essentially. [Will is the mf blueprint and I love him,, I just wasn’t creative enough to think of a way to fit the reader into the story without replacing him ;( ]

Since Hannibal is your therapist, the relationship [although ambiguous] is ethically questionable. That’s par for the course to many Fannibals, but I’ll put this here in case you’re new to the fandom.

warnings: canon-typical violence, dissociation, breach of doctor/patient boundaries, insomnia, sleepwalking, cannibalism, spoilers for episode 1.

Jack Crawford can’t take no for an answer. That’s nothing new, of course. However, it’s frustrating to constantly be on the receiving end of that disappointed glare of his. You can’t take it much longer. He seems to recognize that you’re beginning to break, because he calls in a doctor for your psychiatric evaluation: Doctor Hannibal Lecter. There’s one unspoken statement lingering in the air when you walk into the room: “You will pass this exam and return to the field.”

Against all odds, Dr. Lecter seems to be one of the more competent medical professionals you’ve worked with. He doesn’t poke or prod at things that make you uncomfortable, testing your limits to the maximum. He doesn’t look at you with the patronizing gaze you’re so used to receiving from your peers. Lecter looks at you and, sometimes, it feels as if he’s looking straight through you.

After passing the psychological evaluation—you have a strong suspicion that Dr. Lecter lied on those forms—you’re back on the field. Before long, Jack Crawford is ordering you to look at mangled bodies once more. You notice that it takes more out of you each time you look. Looking is exhausting and the longer you look, the more time it takes to return to your own body.

You’re able to cope until your encounter with the Minnesota Shrike. You feel your composure beginning to slip as you frantically look through files in the office of his construction site. Thankfully, you can finally put a name to the killer: Garret Jacob Hobbs. He’s a construction worker, a husband, and a father. The guy is entirely ordinary, almost scarily so.

When you arrive at the Hobbs’ residence minutes later, you can’t shake the feeling that he’s expecting you. The house is eerily silent and when you walk in, his wife is already dead. Dread churning in your stomach, you turn the corner, only to find Hobbs holding his daughter Abigail captive. There’s a knife pressed to her neck. The betrayed yet horrified expression on her face cements itself in your mind. You point your gun at him, but he slices her neck before you can shoot him. After firing one, two, three, nine shots, you kneel down and try to stifle Abigail’s bleeding. Your heart races in your chest and there’s a roaring noise in your ears. Amidst all the chaos, however, you can still sense Garret Jacob Hobbs staring at you with a sickening smirk on his face.

“See?” The man had asked, as the light faded from his eyes and his body slumped against the cabinets. You turn your attention back to Abigail, who is now gasping and panting heavily. Your hands shake as you desperately try to stop the bleeding. You’re too rattled to notice the sound of footsteps getting closer until there’s a hand on your shoulder. Dr. Lecter and you lock eyes and, even in the swirling mess of emotions running through your mind, there is overwhelming clarity. Dr. Lecter’s expression is far too calm. Just before you can contemplate that further, he’s gently pushing you to the side and tending to Abigail.

Everything after that passes in a blur. Abigail is taken to the hospital and Dr. Lecter accompanies her in the ambulance. Jack seems satisfied and disconcerted all at once. He pulls you aside and starts talking your ear off, but you admittedly can’t process anything of what he’s saying. Eventually, the agent gives up and leaves you to drive home. Even when you go to work the next morning, you can’t shake the grey haze that clings to your very being. “See?” Garret Jacob Hobbs’ voice rings in your ears. You did see; you only wish you hadn’t.

You begin to have weekly sessions with Dr. Lecter. Jack all but forces you to attend, but the sessions actually prove to be helpful. Dr. Lecter is certainly an eccentric character, that’s for sure. You’ve never quite met someone like him before, and you can’t decide if that’s a good thing or not. The therapist is certainly mysterious. You want to figure him out, but, at the same time, there’s a nagging feeling in the back of your mind that is still wary around him. You haven’t necessarily forgotten the strangely calm look on his face in the Hobbs house, the mechanical way with which he accepted the pervasive aura of death all around him.

As great as Dr. Lecter is, he can’t fix everything. Your sleep, for example, is continuing to tank by the day. Since your return to the field, it’s difficult to fall asleep and even more difficult to stay asleep. After the Hobbs incident, you’re plagued with nightmares of dark crimson rivers. A few times, you’re even forced to relive the encounter: the moment Abigail slumps to the ground, the moment you shoot Hobbs again and again and again-

The moral of the story is that you’re not sleeping well. Your sleep has never been great, but it’s also never been this bad. You muse on that thought as you lie reclined on your mattress, staring up at the ceiling. Exhaustion tugs at your very core, but your mind refuses to slow down for even a moment. A voice in the back of your mind tells you that you shouldn’t even try to go to sleep, unless you want to slip into a killer’s skin once more. After staring up at the ceiling for an immeasurable amount of time, your eyes finally begin to fall shut.

Shadows seep into your eyes, coloring your vision dark. For a moment, there’s nothing but darkness. Garret Jacob Hobbs greets you like an old friend, his whispers ripping through your skin and into your very core. You claw at your head and close your eyes, desperate to rid yourself of his haunting voice. Somehow, your effort seems to work and you can’t hear his murmurs anymore. You want to drown in the shadowed void that stretches around you but, suddenly, there are two lights ripping through the blackness. You put a hand over your eyes as the brightness burns holes in your vision. Your eyes water and it takes several seconds for the graininess around you to disappear. To your surprise, there’s a car parked just to your left. You take a step forward and squint at the driver. The window rolls down slowly and your breath catches. A shiver rolls down your spine, and it’s not just the cold air that causes it. 

“Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried, and you quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

“I-” You try to say, but the words are stuck in your throat. His statement prompts you to look around and find out where exactly here is. Ultimately, you realize that you’re standing in the center of a road. It’s pretty dark outside. You look down and find that you’re still wearing your pajamas—a ragged shirt and sweatpants. Furthermore, there are scrapes lining your arms. You inhale sharply, beginning to feel panic seep into your bones.

Hannibal’s car door swings open and he moves to stand next to you. The therapist is dressed nicely, as always. You’d be more self conscious about your own attire if you didn’t feel so discombobulated. “What is the last thing you remember?” The man asks. You pause to ponder the question.

“Falling asleep,” you answer, after thinking about the past few hours. You were staring up at your bedroom ceiling. You must’ve fallen asleep at some point. There’s an infuriating lack of information- a gap from when you fell asleep to when you found yourself staring at the headlights of Hannibal’s car.

Silence settles in the air, thick and uncomfortable. You don’t know what to do or say, that could possibly justify this. Truly, one moment you were in bed and the next, you were standing in the middle of the road. You don’t exactly want to tell Hannibal that, but he seems to recognize the sentiment anyway. His brows are furrowed and his lips are pursed as he stares at you. His gaze is insistent and heated, so much so that you have to look away—lest you get burned.

“Come on,” Hannibal says. There’s an authoritative tone to his voice and you follow along instinctually. He helps you to his car with a hand on your shoulder. For a moment, you shiver in the passenger seat as he stares at you. Hannibal then shakes his head and takes off his jacket, putting it around your shoulders. You vaguely recognize that you must look truly pathetic, but you’re too cold not to burrow into the smooth fabric.

The moment he starts driving, you begin to remember your exhaustion. In actuality, you never got that much sleep. Judging from the radio in Hannibal’s car, it’s only two in the morning. You were only asleep for two hours and, yet, you walked all the way outside to the road. Gritting your teeth, you decide to look out the window. Despite your fatigue, your body doesn’t want to succumb to slumber. You have to settle for staring bleakly out the window.

“We’ve arrived,” Hannibal later announces. You blink dazedly, looking out the window to find a beautiful gothic home looming over you. Just before you can grab the door and get out, Hannibal is on the other side opening it for you. You fall in step beside him and allow him to lead you down the walk towards his home. He opens the door and allows you to enter first.

You feel extraordinary out of place here, as you usually do in Hannibal’s presence. The foyer has an elegant fireplace and deep blue accents. Paintings decorate the walls and there’s a vase of freshly trimmed flowers on one of the tables. You can see Hannibal having an internal debate with himself about giving you a formal tour or telling you about the pieces. He turns back to you expectantly and you follow him into the living room. You freeze in the doorway, upon realizing that you’re still wearing your shoes (which you don’t remember putting on in the first place). You quickly bend down and try to untie them, but your hands are trembling too much to do it.  

“Allow me,” Hannibal says, getting down on one knee. To your horror and humiliation, he proceeds to help you untie your shoes. You avert your eyes, feeling as if your skin is on fire. He must sense your discomfort, because he arches an eyebrow at you before untying them a little faster. Thankfully, Hannibal doesn’t offer to fetch you clean socks- you’re certain you’d die of embarrassment. Instead, the moment your shoes are off, he guides you to sit on the finely trimmed settee.

For a fraction of a second, when you look up at Hannibal, you see the cold, calculated gaze of a practiced killer. “You’re freezing,” Hannibal remarks. You swallow hard and watch with bated breath as he leaves the room. Perhaps you just imagined that. You look around the room, unsurprised to see hints of animals everywhere—what with the mounted antelope head and various skulls resting on the table behind you.

The Chesapeake Ripper sees his victims as animals, as pigs. You’re not quite sure why the killer comes to mind now of all times. Even so, you try to think about what you’ve gathered about him so far. He’s a middle-aged man with no current family. His tastes are eccentric and his murders are artistic performances. Furthermore, the killer is slippery. You’ve only found clues because, you suspect, he wanted you to find them. The killer is narcissistic; he knows he won’t be caught and prides himself on that fact.

Your head aches with the sleep you haven’t gotten. You rub at your eyes roughly, unable to shake the feeling that you’re on the crux of a realization. The Chesapeake Ripper… The killer refuses to leave your mind. Why is that thought plaguing you here, of all places? You’re in Hannibal’s residence, staring at the rather macabre animal imagery around the space, when it hits you. Everything clicks into place: the conveniently timed dinner parties, the luxurious lifestyle, the entire lack of shock on his face at the Hobbs’ house.

It appears you’ve found the Chesapeake Ripper.

Hannibal chooses that exact moment to reappear. There’s a blanket folded over his arm and a mug in his hands. He seamlessly weaves through the room, coming to a stop over you. You look up at him from your position on the couch. “Are you alright?” You nod mutely, not trusting yourself to speak. The clock on the wall ticks ominously. Your hands are still trembling at your sides, so badly that Hannibal reaches out and cups them in his with a worried expression. You’re certain your teeth are chattering in your mouth. You’re going to die. You’ll be the next Chesapeake Ripper victim. When you close your eyes, you see your colleagues from the Behavioral Analysis Unit staring down at your corpse on the investigation table. You take a deep breath and try to remain calm. Your heart is thundering away in your chest and you know you must look suitably harrowed.

Hannibal extends a hand and you realize that the Chesapeake Ripper is giving you a cup of tea. You watch mutedly as an organ harvester gently cleans the scrapes on your skin. A coldhearted cannibal is placing a hand on your cheek and looking into your eyes, searching for something. A murderer is placing a blanket over your shoulders.

Hannibal sits down after his thorough investigation. Meanwhile, there’s one thought running through your mind: You can’t fall asleep here. You absolutely can’t let your guard down in front of the Chesapeake Ripper, the very cannibal you’ve been chasing for years. You sip the proffered tea and pretend that everything is alright. Hannibal seems content to sit with you in silence, although you can sense his gaze burning into the side of your face. Stay awake, you tell yourself. Stay alive.

Your eyes slip shut of their own accord

chapter two

Mwahahahah. AHAHHAHAHH…. Yes. I had to get that out, lol.

The untying of the shoes scene is a slight allusion to the Death Note scene in which L washes Light's feet. That's one of my favorite scenes in the series, as it hints at the parallels between L/Light and Jesus/Judas and the idea of recognizing betrayal before it comes. [Unfortunately, feet also gross me the hell out, so I settled for the untying of the shoes. Haha.]

This is entirely unrelated, but i got my dna results back and apparently i’m lithuanian 😏 [it’s not that significant or specific of a percentage, but just lemme have this 🙏]. hannibal, if ur reading this, i’m just like you frrrr 😮‍💨 except minus, yk, the cannibalism.

anyway, thanks for reading <3

[aliorsboxostuff]

MALE!READER WRITING REQUESTS (TEMP) CLOSED !

Come check out my works bellow!

I've seen how devastatingly little male!reader fics are in my big fandoms, and as a gay man i feel like i should provide us with said fics! Which is why I'm opening my ask box for any and all male!readers and gn!readers requests! (Including anon requests!)

RULES:

I WON'T ACCEPT FEMALE!READER FICS REQUESTS. I’m a trans-masc genderfluid, so male!Readers or gn!Readers are the ones that I usually write and am comfortable with. It’s hard looking for male!reader fics, especially in female-dominated fandoms, that's why I'm opening requests for any and all sad and touch-starved dudes out there! If these don't fit your preferences then you are free to leave, and if you're a female user/reader entering my blog, I hope you remain respectful about the fics I write or get requests for, thank you.

NOTE: I NEVER USE ANY FORM OF Y/N IN MY FICS. I find them kind of weird for me to write so my fics are mostly 1st Person POV. I write most of my fics based off on Fixations that may last a couple weeks, months, years. If you've requested something but havent seen the fic, that might be because i've lost interest!

What i will write:

male!reader

gender-neutral reader

Ftm! Reader

Smut 

Platonic or Romantic relationships

angst

fluff

comfort

headcanons

nsfw alphabets

drabbles

Series

Age gap (CHARACTERS MUST BE OVER THE AGE OF 19)

What I Won't write:

female!reader

underage characters (anyone under 17)

necrophilia

real people

pedophilia

Omorashi

age play

rape/non-con

incest

offensive/harmful things

THE CHARACTER LIST! Or, characters I will definitely write about if requested!

PEDRO PASCAL CINEMATIC UNIVERSE

Ezra (prospect)

Joel Miller

Javi Gutierrez

Javier Peña

Frankie Morales

Whiskey (Kingsman)

Tim Rockford (yes from the Ad)

TOP GUN 86’ & TOP GUN: MAVERICK

Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin

Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

MARVEL & XMCU

Miguel O'hara (ATSV)

Hobie Brown (Platonic/fluff only)

Pavitr Prabhakar (Platonic/fluff only)

Kurt Wagner (xmcu)

Loki Laufeyson

Bucky Barnes

Moon Knight System

Deadpool

Daredevil

Eddie and Venom (They come as a pair)

BULLET TRAIN

Tangerine

Ladybug

Jujutsu Kaisen

Satoru Gojo

Nanami Kento

Higuruma Hiromi

Ryoumen Sukuna

Yuuji Itadori (Fluff)

Toge Inumaki (Fluff)

DETROIT: BECOME HUMAN

Connor (RK800)

Nines (RK900)

COD MODERN WARFARE II

Simon 'Ghost' Riley

John 'Soap' Mactavish

König

HONORABLE MENTIONS

Chris Knight (Real Genius)

Hannibal (NBC)

The Corinthian (Netflix Sandman)

Leon S. Kennedy (RE4 Remake)

Luis Serra (RE4 Remake)

Understand that these are all works of fiction; I am perfectly fine with writing for topics including mafias, mobs, murder, organized crime, war, mental illness, abuse, etc.; but please do not romanticize them in any way. Reading it is fine; please don't romanticize them in your head.

If any of this provided information may seem confusing or have any questions, feel free to drop a DM and I will explain further! I will try to post fic requests as regularly and as fast as I can!

For refrence, these are fics i've written and uploaded to my AO3!

Steven Grant/Male Reader fluff

XMEN Family Pride Fic

Steven Grant/Male Reader Smut #1

Steven Grant/Male Reader Smut #2

Deadpool/Male Reader Fluff Confession

Deadpool/Ftm Reader Smut

Robert 'Bob' Floyd/Male Reader Fluff

Robert 'Bob' Floyd/Male Reader sunshine x grumpy

Tangerine/Male Reader Fluff/Angst Mature

Tangerine/Male Reader Mature

Tangerine/Male Reader (Escort Fic) Mature

Tangerine/NB Reader Teen&Up

Tangerine/Gender-Fluid Reader (Coming out fic)

Francisco "Catfish" Morales/Husband Reader

Joel Miller/Ftm Reader & Ellie Fluff

Joel Miller & Kid Reader

Joel Miller/Ftm Reader & Tess Fluff a bit Angst

Miguel O'hara/Male Reader Fluff

Miguel O'hara/Male Reader Spicy Fluff

Miguel O'hara/Male&GN Reader Spicy Fluff

Miguel O'hara/Male&GN Reader Fluff slight Angst

Din Djarin/Boyfriend Reader Smut

And the Short Fics/Drabbles on Tumblr!

Pulse (Tangerine/M!reader)

Deep Dive (Namor/M!reader)

Hold Tight (Tangerine/gn Reader)

Ner Mesh'la (Din Djarin/Male Reader)

Trinkets (Kurt Wagner/Gender-fluid Reader)

"Anythin' you wanna be." (Hobie Brown & Ftm Reader)

Little Nap! (Meows Morales Drabble)

Anyone that starts an argument about me writing exclusively for men and gender neutrals alike will get a very passive-aggressive and sarcastic reply to your request. There is an abundance of female!readers fics and writers who provide them; I am just here for people that takes a whole day searching for good male!reader fics. IF you do start an unnecessary rant about my fics or my writing preferences at a given moment; I’ve been in fandom spaces for the last 7 years of my life and run on pure manic adrenaline, I will throw hands. 

Without further ado, REBLOG TO TELL ALL DUDES! I OPEN MY FLOOD GATES! WELCOME ALL MALE!READER REQUESTS!

[yangoodomens]

GOING TO TAKE REQUEST

Hello! My name is Jett, I am a writer and artist, I have decided to take request here are my rules

WILL DO -

Yandere

Fem reader

Masc reader

Gn reader

Fluff

Romantic or platonic

Angst

WONT DO -

Character x Character

Character x Oc (for writing)

Smut

Pedo stuff

Too much gore

Too much Murder

Etc. have decency you reptilians

What I will write/draw for

Sonic - any variation

TMNT - most variations

Hermitcraft

Empires Smp

Good Omens

Hannibal (2013)

Centaurworld

DNI IF -

Rasict

Homophobic

Ableist

Or just a generally disrespectful person in general

THANK YOU, I hope to hear from you soon

- Jett

[super-who-locked-me-in-here]

WIP Tag Game

Thank you @det395 for the tag!

Rules: post the names of all the files in your wip folder regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! and then tag as many people as you have wips.

Also just heads up like all but 2 of these are explicit/18+ so you've been warned

Hannibal:

Face the Music - Angst fic - hannibal

CUMbersome - Pregnant Hannibal/Will omegaverse

Friends with (Tax) Benefits - Beverly/Will (FWB) + Hannibal/Will

You Say You're Observing, But This, This Is Participation - Antony/Will + Bedelia/Hannibal + Will/Hannibal

Yakimono Omegaverse

Jack Walks In

Post-fall Woundfucking

Hannibal/Will (Nude Sketching/Cock Cage)

Fiction Short Story - Hannigram different 1st meeting (BSHCI)

Teacher Will/Human Furniture Hannibal

Will/Hannibal (Hannibal walks in on Will jerking off based on @stab-of-hunger 's art)

Hannibal Extended Universe

Will/Nigel (Roleplay)

MurderDogs Omegaverse

Sub Duncan/Dom Adam (Phone Sex + Daddy Kink)

Duncan/Exhibitionist Adam

Alpha Duncan/Omega Adam (Rut)

Duncan x Trans Masc Reader (Pampering Duncan)

Merlin

Another Merlin Magic Revealed Fic

Dream Daddy: The Dad Dating Simulator

The Resident Shark and the Bad Beat Dad

Cinderella Phenomenon

The Birthday Tryst - Klaude x Lucette

Now that I've laid my soul bare, I guess I get to tag 20 people, so here goes:

@long-in-the-tooth @the-other-will-graham @its-the-ratdawg @honeygrahambitch @stranded-labyrinth @lectercunt @petrowriting @suchawrathfullamb @sourweather @devereauxsdisease @valentinsylve @louhetar @sailorbowie @mothstardust @ear-motif @willgrahamsbecoming @saint-hannibal @frumious-bandersnatch-ao3 @cannibaltranssexual @bloody-hands-motif and I suppose anyone who wants to do the challenge too!

I'll be awaiting my fellow freaks in the confessional booth teehee

[gvtted-ratz]

List of Fics/Headcanons We Made (all links go to our ao3)

Works: 23

@gvtted-ratz is the main writer and owner of the ao3

@rppik is the proof-reader and co-writer

it is not our responsibility to baby/take care of what you take in. So if you don't like something, do not read/interact.

fem aligning/identifying ppl dni with our mlm works (we may end up blocking you if you do).

Remember to read the tags/ratings on the works. We use them for a reason, and we would like you to pay attention to them for your own safety/comfort. None are/will ever be Fem!Reader. GN, Male/Masc, Trans Male, Neogenders, and Nonbinary only.

Rules for requests are here!

Marvel:

• Single-Standing Marvel Fics - X Reader (unfinished)

• Single-Standing Marvel Ship Fics - Ships/OTPS (unfinished)

• Sharpshooter - Frank Castle/Matt Murdock/Male Reader (complete)

• Hitman - Frank Castle/Matt Murdock/Male Reader (discontinued)

Slashers:

• All Final People/Reader (unfinished)

• All Slasher Fics - GN+M!Reader (complete)

• Odd - Hannibal Lecter/M!Reader (discontinued)

• Alive - Jason Voorhees/M!Reader (complete)

• The Collection - The Collector/M!Reader (complete)

• All Slasher/Slasher + Slasher/Final People Fics (unfinished)

• Slasher Headcanons - GN+M!+Nonbinary Reader (complete)

Split (2016):

• Lost and Found series - Southern!It/Its!M!Reader (in progress)

Marble Hornets:

• Eldritch Deity - it/Its!Deity!Reader (unfinished)

• Single-Standing MH Fics - X Reader (unfinished)

• Single-standing mh ships - Ships/OTPS (in progress)

The Batman (2022):

• All Riddler Fics - The Riddler/Reader (unfinished)

The Price Of Flesh (game):

• To Stare Is To Buy - GN!Hacker!Reader Series (in progress)

Duskwood (game-everbyte):

• You’re Looking In The Wrong Place - Richy/M!Reader/Phil (unfinished/on hold)

Call of Duty Modern Warfare 2:

• Single-Standing CODMW2 Fics - X Reader (unfinished)

• Single-Standing CODMW2 Ship Fics - Ships/OTPS (in progress)

That's Not My Neighbour (game):

TNMN Headcanons - X Reader (in progress)

Uncanny Valley (scopophobia studios):

Correct Ending - John Doe/M!It/Its!Reader (complete)

Will be updated whenever a new work is made/ finished

Feel free to send in some requests. Or just brainstorm in our box. We are happy to listen and try out sometimes. If we're uncomfy with something, we'll tell you.

Edit: Usually, we use it/its if it’s self-indulgent, since we're a dude who uses them and we have never seen them in fics. We make sure to put that in the tags if those pronouns are used.

[slasher-male-wife]

Hannibal Lecter master list

Hannigramx reader relationship headcanons

Hannigram with an s/o with high functioning depression

Happy holidays: Hannigram x gn reader

Holiday headcannons

Hearing his trans masc s/o is getting top surgery

Reaction to his formerly poor s/o crying out of gratitude

Hannibal with an airhead s/o

Yandere Hannigrahm head cannons

Hannibal with an s/o who likes to bake

Hannigram with an oblivious reader

Hannibal with an s/o who's ok with cannibalism

His reaction to you saying you love "hot old men"

Taking care of his sick s/o

Make him dog food

How he spends Halloween with you

[calebtealeaf]

Hello ! !

- I'm Caleb ! I use mainly he / they / it , and I'm autistic so the subject of my writing is bound to be added to quickly LMAO ^^

Who I'll write for :

CRIT ROLE ;

( c1 ) Vax , Keyleth , Percy , Vex , Gilmore , Pike , Grog , Scanlan . ( c2 ) Caleb , Molly , Essek , Fjord , Jester , Beau , Yasha , Caduceus , Artagan . ( c3 ) Orym , Will , Dorian , Ashton , Fearne , Imogen , Laudna , Chetney , FCG , Frida . ( there's probably more . )

HORROR ;

( re-animator ) Herbert , Dan , Megan . ( saw ) Lawrence , Adam , Amanda , Lynn , Hoffman , Strahm . ( tcm ) Bubba , Thomas , ChopTop , Nubbins . ( lost boys ) Michael , David . ( collector ) Asa , Arkin . ( scream ) Stu , Billy . ( misc ) Freddy K , Vincent S , Billy Lz , Brahms , Harry W .

GOOD OMENS ;

Aziraphale , Crowley , Gabriel , Beelzebub .

HANNIBAL ;

Hannibal , Will .

BG3 ;

Astarion , Gale , Halsin . ( more to be added . )

Preferred ships !! ( just because I prefer these doesn't mean I won't write others . )

Writing style : 3rd person , will only write x reader if asked , can be multi-chapter OR oneshot .

Extra notes : I'll write headcanons ( i have a habit of making most people trans masc , not sorry , or projecting stims onto them . ) , I lean towards fluff but I'm also not rlly arsed , if I'm asked to write other stuff I probably will . That being said , content wise I'll write what I'm comfy writing , so if something makes me largely uncomfy I just won't write it LMAO .

AND asks / requests r open unless I specifically state otherwise :3

( so sorry for the amt of tags good fucking lord . )

[spider-bren]

REQUESTS/ASKS OPEN

Nsfw/Sfw

ship pairings:

- aziracrow (aziraphale x crowley)

- gentlebeard (stede x ed)

- frankbilly (frank x billy)

- hannigram (hannibal x will)

- Sheen/Tennant character pairings (provided I have seen the films/series)

- darklina (The Darkling x Alina)

- wesper (wylan x jesper)

- reylo (rey x kylo)

- daemyra (daemon x rhaenyra)

- daeton (daemon x criston)

- vlaber (klaber x voller)

- dreamling (dream x hob)

- HOBRINTHIAN (Hob x The Corinthian) (I beg you to request this)

- Hanninthian (Hannibal x The Corinthian)

- Rukenna (Billy Russo x Quinn Mckenna) (my own rare pair)

X reader

Fem/Masc/NB

- Frank Castle

- Boyd Holbrook characters (I've seen his filmography so I know all of them)

- Ben Barnes characters (Bonus points if it's the Big Three: Logan Delos, or Billy Russo, or The Darkling | Aleksander Morozova

- Peter Parker (any and all spidermen welcome)

Pretty much ask about x reader and I will see if I will be able to do it :)

DO'S/DON'T'S

- do please reblog my work once I have answered your ask it's the least you can do

- don't expect fast answering since idk when inspiration will hit or if I will have enough time

- do be kind :)

- don't expect me to write rape/graphic violence

- i do write dubcon to an extent

- i do accept most kinks (knife/gun play etc - ask and I shall see)

NO HATE OF ANY KIND WILL BE TOLERATED // TRANS/NB READERS ENCOURAGED

[silentdoves]

✗✗ under 18 DNI !! ageless blogs DNI !! if you follow i will block you ✗✗

✗ about me ✗

i'm ryan, i'm 19, and i like blood and gore. that's all you need to know.

PROSHIP DNI

more info under cut

✗ what i write ✗

the silver scream (mainly silence)

scream movies

hannibal show / silence of the lambs

likely other horror movies

tbh whatever pops in my head

more will be added as i write for it

send a suggestion and maybe i'll write something for it. can't guarantee it'll be anything long, but there might be something (:

i only write for male or gn readers. i will do afab gn / trans masc readers, however there's not enough fics for the non-women out there. also, as a trans masc, i don't feel comfortable doing that.

✗ topics i write for ✗

blood, gore, kidnapping, smut, bdsm, weapon play, stalking, monster fucking, noncon, dubcon, angst, drugs (both con and noncon), physical violence, quite a number of kinks, disembowelment, cannibalism, kidnapping, necrophilia, yandere, manipulation, gaslighting, fuck or die, wound fucking, death threats, rpf

✗ topics i don't write for ✗

incest, underage, scat or piss kink, beastiality, pet play

if you have a question or a request, shoot me an ask

✗ tag list ✗

#ryan-answers - for asks unrelated to my content

#ryan-imagines - for imagines i have about characters. may be longer and enjoyable to others, may be personal to just me

✗ fic masterlist ✗

Silence

'Til Their Insides are On Me (Smut, Gore, x Reader)

also on ao3: silentdoves

[hooman4ever]

Masterlist 

Paid Writing Info

Link Tree (Wattpad/Ao3/Ect)

Horror Films I’ve Watched (Constantly being updated)

Tags I use when posting/relogging anything not related to slasher content #Me Just Talking 👀 #Just Cats

DNI If You-

Are To Immature to Handle NSFW/Serious Themes/Topics

Are Homophobic/Transphobic/Fatphobic

Romanticize Real Serial Killers. 

Are a Terf, MAP, Racist, Misogynist, Ect

Post/Advocate For Incest Relationships At All

 Requesting Info Below 

Request Queue: 41

[Free Requests Closed] [Paid Requests 0/3]

Please specify what Slashers/Characters you want written for in your request since I write for a lot. 

Number Prompt Thingy - NSFW

One-Shots and HCs with 4+ Characters take longer to finish so I apologize for that in advance.

I Do

Headcannons/One-shots/Shorts (One-shots usually take longer to get done depending on the prompt and how many requests I have.)

LGBTQ+ Pairings/Gender Bend 

Most Kinks

Little Space, Tics/Stims, Mental Illness, Ect

Trans Reader (Fem & Masc)

Character x Character

Character x Reader

AUs

Dub Con, Non Consensual Consent 

NSFW - SFW - Platonic - TW Comfort

I Don’t Do

Pedophilia

Romanticized Rape 

Fetishized Little Space (Ex/ No Brahms x Reader smut/NSFW when Brahms is in little space. Out of little space is fine along with little space fluff.)

2006 Billy Lenz - Nothing against the movies or characters, it’s just that the way 2006 Billy is portrayed along with his added backstory.

Who I Write For

If you don’t see the desired character you want written for on this list provide me with the characters name and the fandom/game/movie/show they are from. 

 I’ll do some research on them and try to do my best to deliver accurate content. 

I Have Written For

Horny The Clown

The Lost Boys

Billy Loomis & Stu Macher

Sidney Prescott

Tatum Riley

Randy Meeks

Dwight Riley |Dewey| 

Billy Lenz (No 2006 Vers)

OG Michael Myers 

RZ Michael Myers

Bubba Sawyer

Thomas Hewitt

Chop Top

Baby Firefly

Otis Driftwood

Herbert West

Hannibal Lecter

Will Grahm

Harry Warden

Asa Emory |The Collector|

Bo Sinclair

Lester Sinclair

Vincent Sinclair 

Brahms Heelshire

Malcolm 

Jason Voorhees 

Candyman 

Jesse |Chromeskull|

Dennis Rafkin

Carrie White  

Tiffany Valentine |Human Only|

Chucky, Charles Lee Ray |Human Only|

Any Dead by Daylight Characters |No Clown|

Karl Heisenberg 

Music Man (DJ) - Security Breach

I Have Not Written For But Will Take Requests For

Pinhead 

Patrick Bates

Gomez & Morticia

Gale Weathers  

Mr. Slausen 

Angela Baker (18+ vers or platonic only)

Other RE8 Characters

FNAF

[defectivevillain]

this broken design, ch2

“Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried. You quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

read chapter one here. this part won’t make sense, otherwise! :$ 

[ao3 version of the fic]

reader’s pronouns are unspecified but masa-intended. 

warnings: canon-typical violence & gore, spoilers to the first few episodes

You wake to find yourself resting on the plush sofa in the living room. You’re in virtually the same position as before, except there’s a woolen blanket tossed over you. It takes you several seconds to process everything and, once you do, you freeze. Your unintentional adventure onto the middle of the road, Hannibal’s rather convenient appearance, your trip back to Hannibal’s home. And…  

Hannibal is the Chesapeake Ripper. You take a deep breath in, not very fond of the way your heart is racing. You were entirely vulnerable last night; he could’ve killed you with ease. That begs the question: Why didn’t he? Why didn’t Hannibal take the opportunity to take you out? Surely, the FBI being close on his trail must be aggravating. Then again, the Ripper has always acted as if he’s several steps ahead of everyone else (and, unfortunately, he often is). You ponder the thought for a moment longer, before quickly distracting yourself. You don’t want to think about it for a while—it’s too disturbing to contemplate so early in the morning.

Once you feel slightly better—you’re not sure if you’ll ever grow truly comfortable with the events of the past night—you get to your feet and pace around the room. Honestly, you’re not entirely familiar with the layout of Hannibal’s home. Plus, you hadn’t exactly had the chance to look around last night. There’s a door off to the side that must lead to the kitchen. You hesitate for a few seconds, before shaking your head, clasping the doorknob, and twisting it open. The door falls open to reveal a beautiful kitchen. You’re then struck with the uncanny resemblance to a theater. Perhaps that was the idea. Cooking is a performance to Hannibal, after all.

“What did you put in that tea?” The words fall from your lips before you can stop them. Hannibal stands with his back to you, but he quickly turns upon hearing you enter. He’s wearing a suit already. You feel immensely underdressed, in your filthy pajamas from the previous night. You resolutely pretend not to look as uncomfortable as you feel.

“Good morning to you, too,” Hannibal responds, an amused expression on your face. His sleeves are rolled up as he continues to prepare whatever he’s making. You can’t shake the belief that he must be absolutely furious with you. Hannibal values his privacy, his space, and you’re intruding on it. You’re not quite sure why he hasn’t killed you yet.

“I’m serious,” you frown. The thought hadn’t graced your mind until now, but you can’t seem to rid yourself of it. How did you fall asleep so quickly last night? You were extremely fatigued, of course. However, you suspect Hannibal had something to do with it, too. “What was in the tea?”

“Chamomile,” Hannibal answers with a helpless expression. You’re not convinced, not even when he’s smiling like that. He walks out to the dining room and you follow behind him.“Breakfast?” You warily glance down at the plate on the table, only to find an innocent enough egg scramble. It’s reminiscent of what you ate that one morning in the motel, except without the suspicious meat. You have to consciously push away the thought—the likelihood that the meat was from one of the Ripper’s recent victims. The egg scramble today doesn’t have meat—at least, not that you can see. You inhale slowly and sit down at the place he’s set for you.

“No suitable candidates for meat?” You can’t help but snipe. It takes your mind a few minutes to recognize the fact that you have no power in this situation and, thus, you shouldn’t be pushing the limits. You chance a glance up at Hannibal, fully prepared to see an irritated expression. Instead, all you see is amusement and intrigue. You’re not sure which expression is more dangerous.

“The harvest wasn’t quite bountiful,” Hannibal responds. How on earth hadn’t you made the connection to the Chesapeake Ripper sooner? Hannibal is constantly making those kinds of comments—allusions that just barely scrape the surface of his true actions. Before, you merely thought him to be an eccentric European. Now, you can’t help but think that his eccentricities mask his brutalities–his actions as a killer.

“You garden?” You say, instead of throwing out the accusation you know to be true. If Hannibal wants to play this game, then so be it. You take a bite of the egg scramble, unsurprised that it turns out to be quite good. Hannibal is an excellent cook—at least, when he isn’t putting people on the menu.

“Occasionally,” Hannibal remarks loftily. He finishes chewing and levels you with a strange look. “Nothing measures up to the quality of homegrown herbs.” You let out a breath through your nose, hiding a full laugh. Of course, Hannibal is pretentious about his herbs. That makes complete sense. You wisely keep quiet and take another bite of your food, making sure to compliment Hannibal on his cooking skills. He really is quite good.

“I was hoping you could drive me back to the institute,” you say, once the two of you have finished breakfast. You feel guilty about asking so much of Hannibal but, then again, he insisted that you come with him to his residence. “I don’t have my car, so…”

“Of course,” Hannibal nods, making your doubts diminish. You exhale slowly. You aren’t sure why you worked yourself up so much over that simple question. The clatter of plates draws you out of that spiraling thought process and you watch as Hannibal moves to stack his dishes.

“Here, let me,” you say before he can object. You quickly take his dishes and walk them over to the sink. Thankfully, there aren’t too many dishes—just yours and his. You find a strange-looking brush and internally hope it’s a sponge, before drowning it in soap and attacking the plates. Silence settles in the space as you busy yourself with the dishes. Hannibal walks over to you and leans against the counter a few feet from the sink. He levels you with an inquisitive gaze.

“What?” You can’t help but ask, once the staring begins to stress you out. You steadily focus on the running water, the dirty plates, anything but Hannibal’s keen eyes. Droplets of water fall down your skin as you steadily wash the last remaining dish, shelving it to put away later.

“I’d like to accompany you on your next assignment.” That completely throws you off. You don’t hesitate to ask for an explanation, which Hannibal doesn’t exactly provide. Instead, he paces around for a moment before leveling you with a weighted gaze. “Only if you’re amenable, of course.”

“Okay,” you decide to say, instead of arguing like you want to. Hannibal doesn’t typically budge when his mind is made up. Ironically, it appears as if Hannibal expected you to argue, because he raises his eyebrows for a second. You decide to ignore that. “Before we go… Do you have any clothes I could borrow?”

“Of course,” Hannibal nods. You want to feel self conscious, but it’s a bit too late for that. You’ve been wearing your dirty pajamas since the night before, so the psychiatrist has already seen them. Hannibal leaves the room with the promise of bringing you sufficient attire. You just hope that the clothes aren’t extravagant.

Hannibal returns moments later with a neatly folded pile of clothing in his hands. He offers you the clothes and you take them. You hardly get the chance to unfold them before you’re freezing to stare up at your psychiatrist. “Um, Hannibal?”

“Yes?” Hannibal asks casually, calm and composed as always. Silence descends in the air, creating a thick tension that you’re scared to break through.  

“I didn’t mean you had to give me nice clothes,” you manage to say, looking at the dress shirt and pants he’s provided you. Thankfully, it appears he’s given you something that he hasn’t worn before. Unfortunately, though, your build isn’t quite the same as Hannibal’s. You lament the thought as Hannibal responds to your remark.

“Nonsense,” Hannibal shakes his head. There’s clearly something he’s refraining from telling you, because his lips part for a moment as if to speak. The psychiatrist then shakes his head. You shrug silently, glancing around the space. There’s a hallway off to the side and you take a step in that direction.

“I’ll change and then… we can go?” Hannibal nods and you duck into the nearest room, closing the door behind you. Upon closer examination, you realize that it’s a linen closet. However, it’s not like a typical linen closet—a bureau or dresser; instead, it’s an entire room. You exhale slowly and put on the clothes he’s given you. Unsurprisingly, they don’t fit quite right. However, they’re still leagues ahead of the dirty pajamas you’d been wearing before. You take a moment to fix up your appearance before stepping back out into the hallway.

Hannibal turns around when he evidently hears you exit the linen closet. There’s a satisfied expression on his face. You hastily button the sleeves and straighten out your shirt – well, his shirt (that you’re wearing). Before you can adjust the fabric more, Hannibal leans closer and smoothing out your collar. You send him a grateful smile that you hope will hide your anxiety at his proximity. Thankfully, he’s backing away before long and the two of you are free to walk out to his driveway. Hannibal pauses for a moment and you just narrowly avoid running into him.

“Shit, sorry,” you murmur, putting a hand on his shoulder to steady yourself. The man walks to the passenger side first and opens the car door for you. You move to sit and Hannibal looks down at you from where he’s standing.

“Apologizing again?” There’s an abstruse smile on his face as he speaks. You roll your eyes.

“I wasn’t aware this was a therapy session,” you reply with a wan smile. Hannibal shakes his head in amusement, walking back to the driver’s side and getting in. Luckily, the ensuing car ride is smooth and painless. Before long, the two of you are at the crime scene that Jack summoned you to. You exit the car and take the lead, leaving Hannibal to follow behind you. Jack is standing off to the side with a concentrated expression on his face. You greet him and he snaps out of his reverie. It seems like your boss is about to say something to you when his gaze suddenly falls to the space next to you.

“Ah, Doctor Lecter,” Jack smiles thinly. “What a pleasant surprise.” The look on Jack’s face suggests that it isn’t, in fact, a pleasant surprise. You can’t say you’re terribly surprised at that development.

“Hello, Jack,” Hannibal responds amicably. You can’t quite elucidate the expression on his face. “I must insist that you call me Hannibal.” The man smiles charmingly, a gesture that would work on most people. Unfortunately for him, Jack Crawford isn’t most people. You resist a laugh at the annoyance that just barely shows through on your boss’s face.

“Hannibal, then; what brings you here?” Jack looks at Hannibal warily. Just before the psychiatrist can respond, you decide to interject.

“I brought him,” you blurt out before your brain can catch up. Jack blinks at you in confusion. You chance a glance at Hannibal and raise your eyebrows at him, trying to telepathically communicate that he should go along with it. The man nods ever so slightly. “I figured we could use the help.” Jack assesses you for a second.

“Don’t distract my best agent,” Jack then warns Hannibal. You immediately grimace, knowing that the statement is entirely unnecessary. The likelihood of Hannibal distracting anyone working is slim to none. Also, wait... Jack considers you his best agent? That’s certainly unexpected.

Thankfully, Hannibal doesn’t seem to be too bothered by Jack’s remark. There’s a knowing smile on his face, as if he expected a warning along those lines. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” Hannibal remarks smoothly. You decide to walk down the path towards the house, Hannibal in tow. He doesn’t say anything, but you can feel his unanswered questions lingering in the air. You take a deep breath.

“Jack gets antsy at crime scenes,” you explain, trying to contextualize why you lied about being the one to bring Hannibal along, when, in all reality, it was Hannibal’s idea. You shove your hands in your pockets, feeling the need to find something to channel your restless energy into. “I’m used to being on the receiving end of his rather short fuse.”

“Interesting,” Hannibal muses, falling into step next to you, “I wouldn’t have gathered that from our interaction. He seems to think rather highly of you.” You chuckle wryly under your breath.

“Lord knows why,” you mutter, continuing to walk towards the house. You don’t intend for your comment to be perceived, but Hannibal seems to hear it regardless. You fidget and ignore the discomfort tugging at your core.

“As a friend, I must point out that you’re quite skilled in the field,” Hannibal remarks, to your utter surprise. It takes all of your energy to maintain a neutral expression. Despite your efforts, your eyes widen. “Jack likely appreciates your work etiquette and talent.”

“Somehow, I doubt that,” you frown, letting your gaze fall to the cobbled path below your feet. You kick at one of the upended rocks and it goes skittering along in front of you. Hannibal is your psychiatrist—he’s supposed to say things like that. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, though.” Hannibal’s expression suggests that this won’t be the last time you have this conversation. You resist a shudder at that, imagining sitting in Hannibal’s office and being forced to pick apart your self-deprecation. 

You finally enter the house and begin to wind through the halls, listening for voices. Eventually, you manage to find the scene of the crime: the master bedroom. The victim’s corpse lies against the mattress. Their blood seeps through the white sheets and spreads out around them, creating a puddled effect. Perhaps the most noticeable thing, however, is the gruesome way in which the victim’s chest is torn open, leaving the organs on display for all to see. You don’t realize that you’re blocking the doorway until Hannibal places a gentle hand on your shoulder. Following his movement, you step aside to let him in. There’s no trace of emotion anywhere on Hannibal’s face as he takes in the corpse of the victim.

“Hey!” Beverly greets you, breaking you out of your thoughts. The agent gets to her feet and grabs her clipboard. You greet Beverly in response. She smiles at you, then looks at Hannibal for a moment. Her gaze is scrutinizing and suspicious. “What’s he doing here?”

“Dr. Lecter, psychiatrist and former surgeon,” Hannibal introduces himself, before you can answer. “Please call me Hannibal.” Beverly raises an eyebrow at his outstretched hand but shakes it, albeit begrudgingly. You decide to interrupt before she can ask the question you’re expecting.

“He has clearance,” you say. Your comment goes mostly unnoticed, as Beverly and Hannibal appear to size each other up. Your two most terrifying acquaintances are now meeting. You begin to regret everything that’s led you to this moment.

“Former surgeon,” Beverly repeats, staring at Hannibal in disbelief. You look at your friend, begging her not to say what you think she’s about to say. Unfortunately, Beverly doesn’t seem to care about your distress. She swivels to focus her attention on Hannibal. “What, did you kill someone?”

“Bev,” you groan, wanting to bury your head in your hands. Beverly has never been quite good at filtering her thoughts—always saying whatever’s on her mind. Normally, that’s just one of the many things you love about her. Right now, however, you wish Beverly had a better filter.

“No, I did not,” Hannibal responds, his eyes glittering. There’s nothing but politeness in his frame, but you can sense an aura of irritation emanating from him. You resist the urge to laugh. You felt remarkably similar upon first meeting Beverly, because her blunt honesty can easily come across as rude.

“Well, since you have clearance, Lecter… I guess you can stay,” Beverly says to Hannibal. You chuckle under your breath at the way Beverly refuses to call him by his first name. The thinly concealed annoyance on Hannibal’s face is equally amusing. Beverly then turns to you. “Anyway. Time to do your thing?” Beverly asks. You nod and she walks over to Price and Zeller, putting a hand on each of their shoulders.

“Let’s give him some space.” She sends you an understanding smile, which you return with an exasperated eye roll. Beverly then raises an eyebrow at Hannibal, evidently expecting him to leave with them. Your friend turns to you and squints between the two of you, before shrugging and taking her leave.

“I prefer to do this alone,” you murmur, after the weight of Hannibal’s gaze grows to be too much. The air between you feels charged and tense. You clench your fists at your sides and listen for his footsteps as he exits the room. You wait a few moments and turn around, only to find that the man hasn’t moved.

“I will not be a bother,” Hannibal says. You resist the compelling urge to argue. It’s not that big of a deal, really. It’ll make you uncomfortable, but you can still slip into the killer’s mind with someone else in the room. Besides, Hannibal is your psychiatrist, after all. Nothing he sees will disturb him.

“Fine,” you sigh. It’s not like Hannibal will witness much, anyway—other than you staring off into space. Resolved to your fate, you pinch the bridge of your nose. The pendulum swings before your eyes once more. You close your eyes and, when you open them again, the bedroom is empty.

The victim sits on the mattress, looking down at their phone. You approach them with a knife in hand. You’re not fond of guns—they create too much of a mess. You’re eerily silent, enough so that the victim doesn’t expect your appearance [they never do]. An unsettling prickling feeling runs down your skin, creating goosebumps and sending a shiver down your spine. For a second, you’re struck with the uncanny belief that the victim sees you for who you are. The sensation is gone a moment later, as you realize they still haven’t noticed your presence. Heart thudding loudly in your chest, you reach out and stab them in the back of the neck. The victim flails and you turn them around, shoving them into the mattress before stabbing them once more in the chest. They’re dead within a few seconds. The prickling feeling along your skin hasn’t gone away, even with their death. Weirdly enough, the victim almost looks at peace—if not for the wounds to the back of their neck and their chest. You plunge your trembling hands into their chest and pull. Their blood taints your skin a murky red. The victim is open and vulnerable; their organs are on display for all to see.

Something still isn’t right, though. Anger bubbling up in your chest, you rip their eyeballs out of their sockets. Blood seeps out of their eyes and you streak it downwards across their face—an uncanny resemblance to tears. You put your knife away and survey your masterpiece one last time. This is your design. You glance down at your hands, expecting to see them stained with crimson. They’re clean and unmarred. That’s strange.

“What do you see?” Hannibal asks. You can’t suppress a flinch as you’re roughly brought back to the present. You blink several times and shake your head to clear your thoughts. “See?” Your eyes take in the strange painting the killer has made: the blood streaked across the victim’s skin, the pathway to the heart being ripped right open. It doesn’t take long for you to come up with an answer.

“This killer is at a crossroads,” you frown. You can feel the emotion rolling off of this corpse and each mutilation feels symbolic of something. Even without slipping into the killer’s skin, you could see the anger, irritation, and discomfort. “He feels… vulnerable, perceived in ways he hasn’t been perceived before.”

“How do you reckon so?” Hannibal asks, a strange note of something intangible in his voice. You can’t quite tell, but his voice almost seems sharper. You push the thought aside; you have more things to worry about—namely, the murder scene in front of your very eyes.

“The chest is carved open, yet the heart is left entirely intact,” you tap your chin in contemplation as you look down at the corpse. “It’s unusual for the organs to remain, but that omission was a conscious decision. Furthermore, the eyes are gouged out. He could have left them as is, but he took an extra step and smeared the blood down the cheeks to resemble tears. It speaks of grief. Possibly, also, acceptance? I’m not really sure. This feels… weirdly intimate.”

“Intimate,” Hannibal repeats, evidently intrigued. You take a shuddering breath as the man takes a step further into the room and, subsequently, closer to you. “Few can see past the initial brutality of such an act.” He looks down at the victim’s body, entirely unperturbed. His eyes are fixed on the body like a moth drawn to a flame.

“I can’t quite put my finger on it,” you start, walking around to the side of the bed to look down at the victim. “This feels like a reckoning. The killer is coming to terms with who he is, while simultaneously reaching for something more. It’s a strange juxtaposition: contentment and yearning.”

“Incredible,” Hannibal whispers, his eyes wide with an unrecognizable emotion. The sight grows to be too much and you rip your eyes away. The room’s air feels heated and stifling all of a sudden. You feel at your temple, recognizing the beginning of a headache.

“I suppose it is, in a gruesome way,” you frown, taking a look at the victim one last time. There is a sort of absurd beauty in the way they are laid to rest. Their heart is no longer caged by ribs and skin—it is free to roam. There’s even a restful expression on their face. “I can certainly feel the emotion embedded in the details.”

“I was referring to you,” Hannibal murmurs, drawing you from your thoughts. You look over at him, only to be met with a gaze so intense that it nearly makes your knees buckle. You take a half-step backwards habitually, nearly knocking into the bedside table. The look on his face is nothing short of dangerous. Thankfully, you’re saved from responding by Beverly’s sudden entrance into the room.

“Find anything?” You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. You relay your findings to Beverly, Price, and Zeller, who all look significantly intrigued and disturbed at the same time. Price and Zeller then go over some of the forensic evidence they found. Eventually, the four of you decide to let Price and Zeller brief Jack on the new findings. Hannibal walks outside—evidently to get some fresh air—which leaves you and Beverly alone in the room.

“Hey, Bev, do you have aspirin?” You ask, feeling a familiar pulsing ache in your temple. You find that slipping into the mind of the killer often makes your head spin. It almost feels as if someone is hammering into your skull. You grasp the side table to steady yourself.

“Yeah,” Beverly nods, digging around in her satchel. You breathe a sigh of relief. “You gotta remember to bring some with you, dude.”

“I know,” you sigh heavily. Beverly then pulls out a capsule of aspirin. You smile gratefully and grab two pills, before handing it back to her. It takes you a moment to remember that you don’t have water. Thankfully, Beverly procures a water bottle for you–not without a remark about you being forgetful–and you take the pills.

“Anyway, what’s Lecter’s deal?” You frown at Beverly’s back. She’s bent over the victim’s body, evidently looking for traces of evidence left behind. You already have a bad feeling that she won’t be able to find anything. “He’s a little weird.”

“I’m a little weird, too,” you argue, crossing your arms across your chest defensively. Beverly’s gaze finally falls away from the victim and she stops bending down, instead looking at you for a moment. For a few seconds, the two of you are left staring at each other.  

“No, you’re very weird,” Beverly then counters, a mischievous smile on her face. You slap her shoulder playfully, which prompts her to let out a dramatic hiss of pain. “Whatever. As long as he doesn’t get in the way, I don’t really care.”

“That’s the Bev I know and love,” you grin. You take a peek out into the hallway, only to find that Hannibal is nowhere to be found. Shit, you realize. He was your ride. You bite your lip and turn to Beverly, who still looks rather proud of herself. “Hey, on an unrelated note… can you drive me home?”

“Wow, trying to flatter me into giving you a ride?” Beverly laughs. You realize your blunder and you quickly stammer out an apology, but your effort only makes Bev laugh harder. It takes a few moments for her to evidently catch her breath.  “I’m just messing with you; I should be able to drive you.”

“Awesome, thanks,” you reply breathlessly. “I’ll just need to speak to Jack and then I’ll be done.” Beverly nods and returns to her work. You’re sure that you could scream at her and she wouldn’t notice—that’s just how concentrated she gets at crime scenes. You decide to stick around for a while longer to conduct your own investigation. Together, the two of you spend an immeasurable amount of time performing tests and examining the corpse. You’re not even aware of time passing until Beverly’s phone goes off and she informs you that it’s getting late. This time, you walk out to meet Jack and deliver the news. You find your boss standing out in the front lawn, ordering some officers around. The poor guys, you shake your head in sympathy. Jack must sense your approach, because he turns around and levels you with an expectant gaze.

“Bev and I performed some tests,” you start, already dreading this conversation. You’ve learned that Jack has begun to expect far too much from you. You can always glean details from the killers, sure, but your method is far from perfect. There are always holes in the logic you acquire. “Ultimately, we’re looking for a middle-aged man. He works some sort of day job… maybe a businessman? He has a wife and a daughter.”

“That’s not enough,” Jack interjects predictably.

“It’s going to have to be,” you respond, staring back at him. Unfortunately, that’s all you found. Jack will have to make do with that information. More accurately, your team will have to make do with that information. You’re certain it won’t be long before you find the killer, though; Beverly, Price, and Zeller are all talented forensic experts. Jack seems to come to that same conclusion, although he clearly isn’t happy about it. Your boss asks you a few more questions—most of which you’re unable to answer—until he frees you from duty.

Finally, you can get back home. It’s been a long day. You take a few steps towards the front door of the home to get Beverly when you feel eyes digging into your back. You turn around instinctually, only to find Hannibal staring at you from his car. You return his gaze for a second, before realizing that he seems to be summoning you closer. After walking over, you lean into the open window on the passenger side and grin awkwardly. Hannibal’s gaze shifts from you to the empty passenger seat of his car and you begin to connect the dots.

“Bev’s going to give me a ride…” You smile, resisting the urge to itch the back of your neck amidst the awkward tension.

“I’ll drive you home,” Hannibal remarks, apropos of your statement. His voice is entirely assertive and you find yourself agreeing with him habitually. You manage to grab Beverly’s attention and point at Hannibal’s car. She raises her eyebrows suggestively and, in a fit of exasperation, you send her a vulgar hand gesture. Beverly quickly returns the gesture before waving. You roll your eyes and get into the passenger seat of Hannibal’s car. Before long, you’re on the open road.

The ride is mostly silent. Most of the time, you’d feel pressured to fill that silence with something. With Hannibal, however, the silence is comfortable. That recognition is startling and it nearly forces your next words out of your mouth.“Thanks for, well, everything.”

“Of course,” Hannibal nods, his eyes fixated on the road. In the darkness, they hold a dangerous metallic gleam. Your gaze falls down to his hands grasping the steering wheel. Just how many lives have those hands taken? How many times have they been stained with blood and marked with violence? The thought makes your stomach turn a little. You decide to focus your attention elsewhere.

Before long, Hannibal is pulling into your driveway. You immediately unbuckle your seat and move to grasp the door handle, but the man places a hand on your shoulder. Confused, you remain seated and watch as he walks around the car. Hannibal then opens the car door for you.

“Thanks, Hannibal,” you murmur, pushing yourself up and out of the car. Somehow, this leads to you standing quite close to the man, only separated by the car door. Your fingers twitch as you grasp the door. Hannibal’s gaze doesn’t falter in intensity and you suddenly need an escape.“See you later.” The moment is broken and you push the door closed. Hannibal nods and makes his way back to the driver’s seat. You stand in the driveway and watch as the sleek car pulls away, driving off until it entirely disappears from your view.

chapter 3

I feel like there is a lot of unmasked potential regarding Beverly and Hannibal… I think they’d get along rly well. They’re definitely gifted at getting on each others’ nerves, too,,, lmao.

anyway, thx for reading! <333

tagging: @embalmed-roses @blood-070 and @yourlocalratwriter  

[creepygutz]

rules !!

fandoms

creepypasta

marble hornets

hannibal

sally face

john doe

house MD

what i’ll write

fluff

angst

smut (for characters above the age of 18)

romance

hurt/comfort

platonic

character x reader

character x character

fem , masc , and neutral terms used

monsters

mentions of $h/sewerslide/etc.

yanderesque themes

what i WON’T write

smut for underage characters

any heavy $h , ed , $exu4l assault , etc.

ageplay

smut of real people

commissions: open

requests: open

intro | masterlist

[jae-writes-fanfiction]

K I N K T O B E R ‘2 1 M A S T E R L I S T

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

Welcome to Kinktober 2021! Below you'll find the list of fics being released next month, this is not a schedule. As fics are posted this list will be updated with titles and links! Posting was interrupted due to health issues and a hospital stay. Some fics have been removed from this list as I have either lost inspiration for the request, or I had not started a draft prior to my hiatus. You may resubmit requests if you'd like. 💜

General Warning: Kinktober is a smut event and some content will not resonate with all people. DNI if under 18, and enjoy at your own risk! Happy Haunting! 😊

Forever Now Qui-Gon Jinn x Reader

Kink: Spectrophilia, (sex with a ghost)

A Flame in Your Heart Eddie Gluskin x Fem!Reader

Kink: Breeding, Masochism

Season of the Witch Wanda Maximoff x Lgbtq!Reader

Kink: Temperature Play

Pick Up Every Stitch Harley Quinn x Fem!Reader

Kink: Knife Play/Blood/Edging

Hush Little Baby Harley Quinn x Fem!Reader

Kink: Somnophilia (sex with an individual who is asleep)

Note: within the fic everything is prearranged and consensual

Sure is Strange Obi-Wan Kenobi x Reader

Kink: Public sex

Someday, When I Go Daniel Robitaille/Candyman x Reader

Kink: Praise Kink, Spectorphilia by default

Who Can Make the Sun Rise? “Tony” Anthony McCoy x Reader

Kink: Marking

Safe and Sound Cassian Andor x Reader

Kink: After Care

It Beats for You Ash Williams x Plus Size!Reader

Kink: Oral

We Always Get Along Geralt of Rivia x Reader

Kink: Size, Size Difference

Lavish Mansions, Vintage Wine Ned Stark x Wife!Reader

Kink: Pregnancy, Praise

Come Crashing Down Dale Cooper x Reader

Kink: Priests, corruption

Fresh from the Fire Jim Hopper x Plus Size!Reader

Kink: Thigh-Riding

All the Nails You Need Slasher Ladies x Reader

Kink: Bondage, restraints

Like Rum on Fire Hannibal Lecter x Reader

Kink: Facesitting, Blood play

Youthfully Felt Ash Williams x Plus Size!Reader

Kink: Lingerie, Body Worshiping

Staring into Open Flame Anakin Skywalker x Reader

Kink: Sex pollen

Scare me Up Billy Hargrove x Reader

Kink: Overstimulation

My Insides are Red Bucky Barnes x masc!Reader

Kink: Vampirism, Yandere

Trembling Heart Mark F. x Reader

Kink: Lingerie, Swapping Clothes

[defectivevillain]

this winding labyrinth

chapter 2: rebirth

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader is not gendered, race-ambiguous, and no physical descriptors are used)

summary:

You wish you never met Hannibal Lecter. But you yearn for his presence. You want to forget him. But he never truly leaves your thoughts. Now, you’re left to pick up the pieces of a broken design. A battle of instinct rages on in your mind—one of bittersweet relief and cloying grief, fearless resolve and poignant regret; a clashing between affection and antipathy, pride and pain. What will win, in the end? Only time will tell.

this is chapter 2, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapter 1, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: canon-typical blood, gore, violence, death, animal death; nightmares, hallucinations, suicidal ideation, dry-heaving, hyperventilation, mental health issues.

You’re tired. Your hands are burning and your calluses sting. You don’t want to speak with your social worker, Clark Ingram. He was assigned to you after you sustained that traumatic brain injury from the horse. You know she didn’t mean it, know that Sylvie was just startled. That didn’t matter—no one listened to you. So here you are, sitting on a scratchy couch in a nondescript office, writhing with the indeterminable urge to do something.  

“Peter,” Clark practically coos. You hate him, more than you’ve ever hated anyone before. He is a bundle of contradictions: a fine-dressed man with a fine-dressed smile and fine-dressed lies. “Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

You grit your teeth and keep silent. Time drags on, immune to your internal conflict. 

“Is this about the horse?” Clark asks persistently. 

“Her name was Sylvie,” you feel the need to supplement. 

“Sylvie, then,” Clark corrects himself. You know he doesn’t really care, and that is perhaps the biggest offense of all. Why bother saying something if it isn’t genuine? You’ve always had a problem with faux politeness and socially-mandated compassion. You want to skip the pleasantries. Besides, this isn’t about Sylvie. But it is. But it isn’t. But it is. But it isn’t- but it is- but it isn’t-

“It’s alright,” Clark continues, momentarily breaking through the static in your mind. “I understand,”

“You do?” You ask suspiciously. You don’t believe him. 

“I understand completely,” Clark nods wisely. What he says next tears the rug from under your feet. “You placed a bird in Sarah Craber’s chest, and then put her body in Sylvie’s womb.”  You’re taken with an indescribable urge to tear him apart. “You killed Sarah Craber.”

“No, I didn’t,” you immediately respond. You feel a hysterical laugh bubbling up your throat, clawing at your lips and threatening to escape. 

“You killed her,” Clark asserts. You know something about this conversation is horribly wrong, know that a therapist shouldn’t be convincing you that you did something. Still, what is there to do? You’re required to attend these sessions, required to meet this monster’s gaze and play pretend until you’re exhausted. 

“I didn’t kill her!” You hiss venomously. The air around you almost seems to steam. “She was already dead when I found her!” The atmosphere feels terribly stifling. The walls are tunneling in on you, curving to consume you whole. 

“It’s okay, Peter,” Clark says, his voice soft as if he’s trying not to spook you. This realization only angers you further. “I won’t tell anyone.” 

“I didn’t kill her- ” You break off, clarity striking you. There’s a reason Clark is so desperate to paint you as the killer when you’re not. Clark Ingram is the killer those FBI agents are looking for. Clark Ingram killed Sarah Craber and so many more. Is he even a social worker? You suppose he really could be—Hannibal Lecter was a practicing psychiatrist and doctor despite being the Chesapeake Ripper. You saw his name all over the news, coupled with that FBI agent you spoke to the other day who offered you a phone number and a compassionate, patient smile. You think back to the times Clark Ingram has sent alarm bells blaring in your mind—the cruelty disguised by that sharp glint in his eyes, the dangerous gaze that you had always mistaken for an attentive one. 

You want to tell someone, want to run from the room and never stop running, until you’re speaking to Jack Crawford and the same agent as before. You desperately want to stand up, fabricate an excuse to cut the appointment short. But one acknowledgement triumphs over all these desires: no one will believe you. There isn’t a damn soul who has taken you seriously since your brain injury, and your memories of life before then are all an incomprehensible blur. You can already imagine walking into the Bureau—if you can even get past security—speaking to Crawford, watching his eyes squint before he lets out a loud laugh right in your face. 

You stare at your social worker. Clark Ingram stares back. For a while, there is nothing but silence.

Until something in you snaps. You don’t know what happens in the span of those few seconds. One moment, you’re glancing at the tableside lamp. You envision yourself grabbing at the lamp and striking Ingram over the head with it, knocking him to the floor in a heap. The next moment, you’re holding the shattered remains of the lamp in your left hand as you stand over Clark’s crumpled body. 

You’re not usually this reckless. You’ve never harmed a soul before—human or animal. You’ve always considered yourself a withdrawn person, perhaps even meek. Yet here you are, looming over your unconscious social worker as blood slowly trickles from the gash on the side of his head. Thankfully, it looks like he’s still breathing. You don’t know what you would have done with a dead body. An unconscious one, on the other hand, is a different story.

After some contemplation, you reach down and grab Ingram’s ankles. You drag him out of the office, taking brief satisfaction from the various bumps and collisions his head makes with the furniture and the doorframe. You must have some good karma, because there isn’t a single soul in the deserted office building. You bring Ingram’s body out to your car and throw him in the trunk. He doesn’t deserve anything more than that, you think. In fact, you have an idea for something that would even the scales. 

As you pull into the driveway, your plan begins to take shape. You carry Ingram into the stable, your muscle memory taking you to the stall that Sylvie inhabited just a few days ago. You want to be angry, but you have bigger, more important things to focus on. You take a deep breath and crouch down to place a hand on her chest.

Some time later, the deed is done. Blood is speckled across your hands. You briefly feel guilty—not for Ingram, but for Sylvie. The overarching sentiment running through your chest and crawling along your skin, however, is satisfaction. You take a moment to look at your vindictive masterpiece once more, before turning your back. 

With shaking hands, you reach into your pocket and pull out the scrap of paper that the FBI agent wrote the phone number on. For a long moment, you stare down at it. Are the agents really to be trusted? Should you keep this information about Ingram to yourself? You shake your head and pull out your phone, typing in the numbers with care. For a moment, the phone rings and rings. 

“Hello?” A familiar voice answers the phone. “Who is this?”

You take a deep breath to steel your nerves, before responding. “Peter,” you answer habitually, before realizing you likely need to clarify. You think you hear a hitch of breath on the other end of the call, but you put it down to your imagination. “Peter Bernardone.” You clarify. 

There’s a few beats of silence. When the voice returns, it is laid with caution. “Hello, Peter.” 

Soil traps you and locks your limbs, sticking to your skin and refusing to let its presence fade. Every fiber of your being seems to twitch in restlessness and your heart races in your ears. You swear you feel something wiggling on your arm—perhaps a worm. The thought revolts you and you writhe in your natural prison. Dirt kisses your lips, pressing a gentle hand to your forehead and enforcing the insurmountable distance between you and the sunlight. The darkness is not welcome—it is too cold, too damp, too hollow. You blink and there’s a horrible cascading sound. Suddenly, it feels as if you aren’t alone. Your hands continue to twitch and you recoil when you bump against something distinctly humanlike. Turning your head to the side, you come face-to-face with the corpse of Sarah Craber. She opens her mouth and a bird crawls up her throat, wrenching its way out of her mouth and bursting toward you in a yellow blur. 

You inhale in a shuddering gasp and quickly sit up, sweat rolling down the back of your neck as you’re suddenly brought back to your bedroom. You had a nightmare. It was just a nightmare, you repeat to yourself as you wash your hands clean of the unseen dirt. You regard yourself in the bathroom mirror, displeased by what you see. Dark circles bracket your dull eyes. There’s a mark on your face from your pillow. Your scar gleams tauntingly from its position on the left side of your face—Abel Gideon’s farewell gift to you. It had been healing, until the Chesapeake Ripper lived up to his namesake and sliced it right open again. 

You rub a hand over your face and briefly rub your eyes, before pacing out of the bathroom and getting back into bed. As you stare up at your ceiling and will yourself to fall asleep, the killer’s graveyard haunts your waking mind. You can’t help but think of the victims that were buried underneath uncompromising soil, never to breathe again. Jack had warned you to brace yourself, before you came upon the scene. You thought you had. 

Your conversation with Peter the other day weighs heavily on your waking mind, from the moment you wake up in the morning to the moment you sit down in your office. There’s something off about it, but you can’t figure out what it is. He didn’t seem interested in providing you information. Yet, when Jack interrupted and said he had a lead, Peter almost morphed into a different person. He didn’t avoid your eye contact and his voice sounded noticeably brighter than before. You think back to that specific interaction. 

“Sorry, Peter,” you had apologized, “I have to go.”

“What is it?” Peter asked, turning towards you for the first time in the conversation. “Did you find him?”

“It’s classified, I’m sorry,” you responded. Your hackles had risen there, for reasons you hadn’t been sure of.  “But we’re tracking down this killer. I promise he’ll be put away.”

Why does that exchange seem more significant now?

“What is it?” Peter had asked. “Did you find him?” 

“Did you find him?” 

Peter knew the killer was male. 

Normally, that wouldn’t be cause for suspicion. In your experience, men are more likely to commit crimes than others. However, Peter’s statement was spoken with a frightening amount of certainty—despite the lack of veritable proof. That begs the question: how did Peter know? Does he know who the killer is? 

You want to speak to Peter again, but Jack doesn’t seem to think Peter needs any further investigation. You know better, but without Jack’s approval, you’re doomed to your office. You have to simper in frustration. Somehow, you’re sure that Peter knows more than he’s letting on. You hardly got anything out of him last time. Typically, when people are so resistant to questioning, it’s because they’re hiding something. You just need to figure out what Peter is hiding.

Your phone rings, cutting you out of your thoughts. Could it be Peter? You highly doubt it, but you decide to answer the phone regardless. 

“Hello,” you respond, “Who is this?”

“Peter,” the caller responds. Their voice sounds familiar. You feel an ugly feeling slide up your skin. “Peter Bernardone.”

Your eyes widen. You look around your office, before getting to your feet and shutting your door. You return to your desk and try to rip the words from your throat. “Hello, Peter.” 

“Hello,” he responds. He sounds different than before. Perhaps it’s because you’re hearing him speak. He didn’t speak very much last time. Despite the casual nature of the conversation so far, there seems to be anticipation and tension in his voice. 

“...Did you need something?” You decide to ask. It really seems like Peter called for a reason. You know you told him that he could call to speak to you again, but you aren’t so foolish to assume he’s calling because of that. 

“I…” He breaks off, sounding hesitant. The line goes silent for a few seconds, but the time passes with infinite lethargy. All you can hear are your steady breaths, the sound of your pen as you tap it against your desk, and the clock ticking on the wall. You can hear distant voices in the hall and you’re grateful that you had the foresight to close your door. “I think I’m ready to have another conversation.”

“Excellent,” you remark. You wonder if relief is evident in your voice. It probably is—Jack and you are desperate for any new leads on this killer. The last thing you want is for him to kill again and, as of right now, you don’t have much information to determine his whereabouts or his next move. “How does…” You trail off as you glance at your clock. “... an hour from now work for you?”

“That works,” Peter responds. He sounds like he’s had enough of the conversation. You don’t necessarily blame him for being apprehensive about speaking to a federal agent. If you were in his position, you’d certainly be distrustful. 

“Great, see you then,” you answer, giving him an out. He takes it and murmurs a goodbye, before the line goes dead. For a moment, you sit at your desk, your mind reeling. While you had provided your phone number to Peter for that express purpose, you hadn’t expected him to actually take you up on the offer to divulge more information. 

An equal rush of adrenaline and trepidation runs through you. The adrenaline wins out, as you get to your feet and pace over to Jack’s office. It isn’t a long distance, and you soon find yourself opening his office door. 

“Jack,” you start. Your boss looks up from his computer. “Peter called.” 

“What?” He asks. 

“Peter called my extension,” you elaborate, before you can grasp the consequences of doing so. In hindsight, perhaps you shouldn’t be admitting to sharing your agency-assigned phone number with a member of the public. Perhaps that’s why Jack’s eyes go so wide. 

“What?” Jack hisses. He looks like he’ll burst a vein in his neck. “Agent, that number is confidential and should only be shared with other government employees and officials.”

“Never mind that, Jack,” you interject before he can continue scolding you. That’s not important—at least, not right now. You’re sure you’ll have to sit through a lengthy lecture later on, when you have the luxury to sit down and think about trivialities. “He said he was ready to have another conversation.” 

Jack stills. He knows how important another conversation could be, but he seems to be battling against the instinct to reprimand you. You stare at him and, after a few moments, he sighs. Jack looks up from his glasses, which are gradually slipping down his face. “You’re not going to get anything more from him,” he says resignedly. You rejoice internally. That remark is a sign that, although he isn’t happy about it, Jack will permit you to speak with Peter. 

“I think I’ll get something from him,” you assert. You don’t think you’ll get more information—you know you will. Peter wouldn’t be calling unless he were willing, in some regard, to give you something. You’ll take almost anything at this point—anything that will free you from the muddied cages of damp soil and suffocation that haunt your nightmares. 

“Fine,” Jack sighs, knowing there’s no point for further argument. He certainly doesn’t look amused, but he seems to have given up now.  “Read over his file before you go.” Jack goes into his desk and retrieves the file, which you take with a murmured thanks. 

In the coming minutes, you learn more about Peter Bernardone than you could have ever hoped to know. The most useful piece of information doesn’t concern Peter, though. You look down at his listed social worker, frowning at the picture. The man looks innocuous enough upon first glance. Ingram is just about the only other person mentioned in Peter’s file, aside from a sibling that hasn’t been in contact with Peter for several years. Has this social worker, Clark Ingram, been brought in? 

“Did you speak to Clark Ingram?” You ask. Jack’s gaze is fixated on his computer. For a moment, you contemplate asking again, but then he responds.

“We spoke to him for a bit, but didn't come back with anything.” Jack responds. He doesn’t look persuaded, and you don’t think you’re convinced either. There’s something about the look in Ingram’s eyes in the photo… It looks as if there’s a hidden depth beneath that expression on his face, something he isn’t telling anyone. Indeed, he looks ever so slightly smug.

“Might have to pay him a visit,” you remark. Maybe you can do that after you speak with Peter. Your best lead right now is definitely Peter, but Ingram may be a good backup plan in case Peter clams up or suddenly decides to remain silent. Jack seems to think the same, because he nods silently. Armed with information, you send Jack a mock-salute and leave his office. As you walk through the Bureau’s halls and return to your car, you think about everything that has made up the case against this killer so far. You review evidence, circumstances, and backgrounds on the victims as you drive to the stable Peter works at. He hadn’t specified a location for your conversation, you’re realizing as you continue driving. If he isn’t here, you’re going to be in for an earful from Jack. You’re willing to take that risk, though. 

Some time later, you pull into the parking lot next to an unassuming SUV and park. You steal a few seconds to take some deep breaths as you wait in your car. Your hand is wrapped around your keys and you close your eyes, tilting your head down and trying to remember why you’ve come here. You’re not recalling your purpose for the visit, but instead, the purpose behind your decision to pursue a career as an FBI agent. You wanted to make a difference. You’re getting that chance right now, and you can’t blow it. Your shoulders almost feel tight from the intangible pressure that has been thrown onto you. Thankfully, you’ve grown to be comfortable working under pressure. The life of an FBI agent isn’t convenient or relaxed—the pacing of your work is extremely sporadic, and you’re expected to be “on” and ready at all times. 

Shaking your head, you step out of your car and walk up the dirt path to the stable. When you open the doors, you’re unsurprised to find a rider with her horse. You nod at her as you walk in, pretending not to notice how her gaze burns into your back when you pass her. Somehow, you know where Peter will be. You pass several different stalls, before reaching the one he was in a mere few days ago. The plaque on the stall says “Sylvie,” which must’ve been the horse’s name. You knock on the closed stable door and, after a few moments, decide to open it. 

Peter is in nearly the same exact position as before, with his back turned to the door and his eyes evidently fixated on the horse’s corpse. 

“Hello, Peter,” you remark. Peter doesn’t respond. You give him a few moments, before taking a few steps forward to break the distance between you. With your newfound position, you’re able to see his expression. To your surprise, the look on his face is slightly… different than the last time you saw him. Before, he had looked devastated, heartbroken, destroyed. Now, he almost looks… at peace. How could he have pivoted so intensely in such a short period of time? Something about his disposition unsettles you. “You wanted to speak with me.” You remind him. 

For a long moment, there is nothing but silence and anticipation. Then, Peter speaks. “I… wanted to heal her.” 

“You… wanted to heal her,” you repeat. What or who did he want to heal? Your initial reaction is that he wanted to heal Sylvie, but that doesn't sound right. She was already dead by the time Peter arrived, so anything he could’ve done would’ve been pointless. Is he referring to… the victim? “Sarah Craber?” You ask. 

“Yes,” he responds hollowly. His gaze is still locked on the horse’s corpse.

Somehow, it’s taken you this long to realize that you’ve underestimated Peter’s role in the events that transpired that day. “You were the one to put the bird in her chest,” you realize aloud. Yellow fluttering wings rush across your vision. Peter nods quietly. You’re not surprised. You should’ve made the connection sooner—should’ve thought of the bird as a gesture made out of kindness, not maleficence.

You’re sidetracked by the strange conviction that something in this stall has changed since the last time you were here. You try to rack your brain for the juxtaposition that is occupying your attention. Peter is here still, wearing similar attire and lingering in about the same position as before. There’s you, standing a bit closer than you were last time. There’s still hay strewn about the floor. The horse’s corpse remains against the wall, and the stench is beginning to grow more pervasive. The corpse looks the same, with the womb stitched up and the entrails hidden from sight. 

Hidden from sight? You take another look at the corpse. Last time you were here, the horse’s womb was exposed and the entrails were everywhere. Now, there’s no sign of blood or innards. Indeed, the stall’s floor is missing any sign of the gruesome scene from before. It’s not unthinkable to think that someone could have cleaned it up, but the horse’s womb looks entirely different. In fact, it almost looks as if someone stitched it back together. There’s no sign of the dead foal, but you suspect it was placed back in the womb. 

“Peter, did someone come through here and stitch her womb back together?”  You ask. 

“I don’t know.” Peter answers. It’s a lie. You can tell from the way his posture shifts, his shoulders falling ever so slightly as he almost seems to cower in on himself to avoid your gaze. 

“Did you sew her back up, Peter?”  You question. Peter stiffens and you realize you may have worded your statement indelicately. You scramble to find a better way to say it. “Did… did you heal her?” 

This prompts Peter’s attention. The man turns around, staring at you with wide eyes. His eyes look ever so slightly glassy and he stares at you for several moments, before jerking his head in a slight and nearly imperceptible nod. 

“Thank you for being honest with me,” you choke out. Your heart is still racing in your chest, despite Peter’s confession. Why are you still so unsettled and unnerved? The mystery surrounding the corpse has been cleared up. But it still feels as if something is missing. What could it be? 

“You’re not… angry?” Peter then asks quietly. You blink at him. 

“I’m not angry, Peter.” You reassure him. He seems to believe you once you utter the statement, and you watch as a little bit of the tension slips from his shoulders. There is still something that is bothering him, you think. “Now, why did you call me here?” 

“I… wanted to ask about my social worker,” Peter trails off. His back is turned again. Maybe he doesn’t like the idea of having a social worker. Maybe he’s uncomfortable talking about it. Amidst your speculation, one thing is for certain: this is a sore spot for him. 

“Clark Ingram?” You question. “What about him?”

“Has he been called in for questioning?” Peter remarks. 

You probably shouldn’t be telling him anything, but you know that this needs to be an exchange in order for Peter to feel comfortable sharing information with you. Sometimes, you have to give a little to get a little. “Yes,” you say. You decide to leave it at that and wait for Peter to clarify. 

“I think he… may have a role in all this,” Peter evidently settles for saying. He sounds hesitant.

“How come?” 

“There’s something off…” Peter begins, “in his eyes. The way he speaks to me, looks at me. Sometimes, he stares at me like…” He breaks off. Like you’re a test subject? Like you’re an intriguing new science experiment? Like you hold the very world in your hands?  “I’m probably not making much sense,” Peter suddenly acquiesces, rubbing a hand over his face. He seems self-conscious and anxious all of a sudden. If this continues, he won't be comfortable sharing any more information with you. You need to express that you understand him. And if a smaller part of you truly does empathize with him, empathize with being treated as an oddity… no one needs to know. 

“No, I know what you’re talking about.” You say. Peter turns and looks at you. 

“Really?”

“......Yes,” you remark. It takes you a little while to force the words out. You don’t speak on any of your thoughts, don’t want to monopolize the conversation or change the subject. Still, you are familiar with an attentive gaze that penetrates your mental defenses, leaving you uncomfortably vulnerable and raw in its wake. You are more than familiar with the shadows that beckon you closer, calling for you to do unspeakable things to the chessmaster sitting across from you in a dimly-lit office. 

“I just came from a session with him,” Peter continues, breaking you out of your thoughts. He doesn’t offer any further explanation. 

“Ingram? How’d it go?” You ask. Peter shakes his head wordlessly. This session lies at the center of Peter’s current stress. The interaction must’ve gone quite poorly indeed, because Peter goes silent. 

“Peter, are you alright?” Peter shakes his head, although you can’t quite tell if he’s answering your question or trying to shake off a phantom grip. 

“He was questioning me. About Craber. Saying I did it.” The confession stews in the muggy air of the stable. The rotting corpse reaches your nostrils, but even that undesirable stench isn’t enough to draw your attention away from what Peter just said. 

“Ingram was accusing you of her murder?” You press. 

“Manipulating me,” Peter says, picking at his lip. “Trying to get me to confess for something I didn’t do.” 

“That’s-” You try to say, but it seems Peter isn’t finished speaking. 

“I- I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like I didn’t have a choice. And- I didn’t know how to handle the feeling.” Peter looks down at his clasped hands. 

“What feeling?” You’ve never heard your voice sound so quiet before. 

“Anger,” Peter responds, averting his eyes. His gaze is locked on the corner of the room. You take a step closer, then another. You take a deep breath and kneel down next to Peter, in front of the horse’s corpse. Suddenly, lightning flashes in your mind as you come to a realization.

You thought Peter’s grief explained his current positioning—the way he’s sitting in front of Sylvie’s body. That was your prevailing reasoning. You know that’s wrong now. Peter isn’t watching over Sylvie to grieve for her or comfort her. He’s guarding her. 

Why would Peter be guarding the corpse? There shouldn’t be anything there, save for the horse foal that he must’ve sewed back into the womb. But no, that hasn’t been confirmed yet. You don’t know what’s in the horse’s womb. If it were the foal, you suspect Peter wouldn’t be guarding the body. No, there’s something else. Peter put something in the womb and sewed it up to hide it. But what could it be? 

Peter placed the bird in the victim’s chest and placed the victim in the horse’s chest to heal her. This seems different. This time, whatever—whoever—he placed inside the horse’s womb was placed there as Peter tried to cope with his anger. This reconstruction was fueled by anger: anger at the injustice of the crime, anger at the thought of being accused of being the killer. Who was that anger aimed at? Where did Peter’s anger come from? “I panicked. I didn’t know what to do. I felt like I had no choice… He was manipulating me.” 

Clark Ingram provoked Peter. Ingram was poking and prodding at him, trying to get him to confess to his role as the killer. What would Ingram gain from that? Ingram was only mentioned in Peter’s file as a social worker; they didn’t know each other prior to Ingram’s assignment. Ingram didn’t have a vendetta against Peter. No. Clark Ingram was desperate to get Peter convicted as the killer. Because…. Because… 

Clark Ingram is the killer. He tried to get Peter convicted in order to save himself. Shaking, you kneel down to the horse’s womb and press a hand to its belly. The dead foal isn’t in there—you remember it being smaller. You know what Sylvie’s womb is holding now. 

“Peter…” You remark. Your voice sounds foreign to your ears—eerily calm despite your heart thundering away in your chest. You’re choking on the words. You don’t want to speak, don’t want to cement the reality that you’re so afraid of. “Is your social worker in that horse?” 

Peter’s back is turned. He doesn’t respond for a horrible amount of time. You bite the inside of your cheek and try to maintain a sense of composure that you certainly don’t feel. A minute passes. Then another. Then another. When Peter responds, his voice is a murmur. “Yes.” 

You inhale sharply. Peter placed Ingram in the horse’s womb. He must’ve incapacitated him during their session, before bringing him back here to this stall. From there, Peter maneuvered Ingram’s body into a fetal position, before placing him in the corpse. Then, he placed the entrails and innards back in the womb, before sealing it all up again. You take a shuddering breath in, the act feeling more laborious than normal. Now that you’re kneeling next to Peter, you realize that his hands have been clasped in his lap throughout your conversation. There are muddy brown stains on the insides of his palms—dried blood. 

You don’t know how long you remain silent, staring at the corpse in front of you. Did Peter kill Ingram? You’re not sure you want to know. All you know is that, when you finally summon the courage to speak, Peter is spooked by the noise. “Will you remove him, please?” You ask. 

Peter stares at the corpse, then turns to you. He nods silently, almost imperceptibly. You pull out your gun and hold it at your side, watching as Peter slowly slices his knife along the horse’s stomach and traces the incision that he created. After a few moments, he gets to his feet and steps away. For an awful beat, there is nothing but silent anticipation. The quiet is broken by a loud gasp as the horse’s stomach pulses and eventually falls away to reveal Clark Ingram, covered in blood and entrails and panting as he returns to the open air. Ingram turns his head up and finds Peter before you; his expression soon morphs into manic rage. You quickly point your gun at Ingram and cock it, drawing his attention away from Peter. Ingram’s eyes meet yours and, immediately, a pendulum swings before your eyes. Clark Ingram murdered all those women and buried them beneath the ground. That momentary glance was all you needed to confirm your suspicions. Even now, as you look at him, you have to fight off the pendulum’s grip. You blink and you see yourself carrying a dead body, digging a hole on the earth to dump it. You blink again and you feel your hands shaking, writhing as you look at your next victim from afar. 

“Please,” Ingram begs. Old blood soaks through his clothing and colors his skin. “It’s not me.” 

You shake your head. The lie is half-baked and falls apart the moment it reaches the air. Ingram knows it too, if the positively malicious glare he sends Peter is any indication. You keep your aim steady and fixed on Ingram. Your finger twitches to pull the trigger. You grit your teeth and try to pull yourself out of the horrible compulsion to make this man hurt, the way he made those women hurt.

Ingram stares at you with a truly pitiful expression, his eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “Please,” he says again. You consider him for a moment. He has robbed many people of their futures. This man does not deserve to continue living, even if that life is confined to a prison cell.

You’ve dealt with criminals like this before: maleficent individuals that deserve a punishment far worse than what they’re getting. This is far from the first killer that you’ve had to confine to a prison cell, despite knowing they deserve the gallows. It’s one of the most frustrating, yet necessary, components of your position. You had never fought with the notion before. Today, though, you’re grappling with the thought. Does Clark Ingram even deserve to keep living? What divine force determined that he was worthy of living, while all his victims weren’t? Hannibal’s voice whispers in your ears, reminding you of God and his violence and cruelty. If God kills, why can’t you? Your head aches. Your hand is growing sweaty and your fingers are twitching. Ingram must sense that you’re approaching the brink of your patience, because his pleas turn louder and more pronounced. 

You’re drowning in a maelstrom of memories. 

“See?” Garret Jacob Hobbs croons.  

“This work… it changes you.” Jack remarks, just as he said to you all those years ago.  

“The killer in the flesh,” Dr. Frederick Chilton greets you, his teeth sharpening and glinting in the light.  

“You killed Franklyn Froideveaux,” Zeller accuses.  

“In your dreams, what do you see?” Hannibal had once asked you.  

“I see myself killing Hobbs, over and over and over again,” you had responded. “I see Abigail slowly fading on that kitchen floor. I see the blood spattered on my hands. And… I feel a smile on my face.” 

“ And, when you wake up?” Hannibal asked. “Dreams are often a pathway into the parts of our minds that we hide away from others. Perhaps there is some truth in these dreams. Perhaps, what you’re most afraid of…” 

“I don’t feel guilty,” you admitted. “Killing… felt good.”  

You blink hard and tilt your head, trying to shake the thoughts away. They return in full force. A shadowed figure stands at your side, guiding your aim to Ingram’s temple. The Chesapeake Ripper smiles at you, a cruel grin that rips the veiled darkness surrounding his form. 

Someone is yelling your name and their voice reverberates through your skull. You clap your free hand over your ear in an effort to silence the sudden onslaught of noise. Everything is growing to be too much. Voices are beckoning you, peering over your shoulder and regarding Ingram with malice. You open your eyes. Your hand twitches again. 

You don’t resist the movement, instead letting your restless impulse— your killer impulse —take over. You fire your gun. The bullet carves through the air in slow-motion, before settling in Ingram’s temple and carving into his skull. Blood splatters everywhere: over the ground, down the killer’s skin, across your face. You wipe the blood from your eyes. 

You stare ahead. Clark Ingram lies crumpled on the ground, the light fading from his eyes. He manages a weak groan, before his eyes promptly fall shut. You stand frozen in front of him. There’s a ringing noise in your ears. The pendulum from before has shifted into a metronome, swinging back and forth. A hollow echo resounds in rhythm as you stare at your first true victim. You’re shaking, trembling, shivering. Your gun slips from your hand, falls to the hay-filled floor with a thud. 

What have you done? 

Ingram isn’t just a victim, now. He’s your victim. This is truly your design. Everything fell into place the moment you raised your hand and aimed at Ingram’s temple. You can hear his voice echoing in your mind, begging and pleading with you to spare his life. Please. You bring a hand to your head, the pulsing sensation nearly enough to bring you off your feet. Please. Blood is trickling from his temple, falling down the man’s face in crimson tears. Please. You can hear an achingly familiar laugh, a whisper of the cunning wit you haven’t heard in years. Please-

You put your hands over your ears and fall down to a kneeling position on the ground, desperate for a reprieve from your thoughts and the guilt and the vindictive feeling powerful enough to send flames roaring up your skin- 

It’s hard to breathe. You feel yourself dry heaving over the hay-covered floor and, when you blink, you’re kneeling in puddles of Ingram’s blood. You try to inhale slowly, but your breath is hard to acquire and your chest burns with the effort. Saliva slips from the side of your lips as you try to recover from the fear, regret, rage, revulsion, pride that settles over your form. You look at Ingram again, take a deep breath. Wipe off your mouth. Take another breath. Slowly get to your feet. Walk over to him. Check for a pulse.

He’s dead. 

What should you do? You could turn yourself in and lose your job, potentially facing prison time. You could try to dress up the crime scene, make it seem like a suicide. That would be incredibly difficult to do without indicting Peter and making him a potential suspect. Furthermore, it’s somewhat implausible to think that Ingram would shoot himself after escaping the horse’s womb, rather than trying to wound his enemy. He had no qualms about sourcing his victims, and likely engaged in combat to do so. You feel your breathing quicken as you are forced to come to terms with the reality of the situation. It feels as if the world is caving in. Rationality is giving way to the emotions that suffocate you. 

Distantly, amidst it all, you can recognize that there’s one more option. You never would have considered it before— before him, a traitorous voice whispers in the back of your mind. (It sounds like Franklyn.) However, you truly feel as if you have no better choice. And if a part of you wishes to make things even once more, to harm the criminal who ruthlessly killed Ingram in cold blood…. 

You take a deep breath. “Peter,” you say calmly. Your voice sounds unnaturally tranquil. “I need you to do something for me.” Peter looks at you quizzically. “Walk out of the stable. Go back inside and… don’t come back out until you hear me.” Peter stares at you for a long moment. He is startled. There are flecks of blood on his cheeks. Through the emotional whiplash of what you’ve done, remorse and guilt briefly prevail as you realize that you shouldn’t have gotten Peter involved in this. Thankfully, what you’re asking of him provides him an alibi for what will come next. 

“How will I know when you…?” Peter breaks off, staring at you in confusion. 

“Can I trust you to do that for me?” You interject. The sincerity in your voice seems to unnerve him. 

“Yes,” Peter responds with a perplexed but resolute nod. “Yes, I- Okay.” He takes one last look at the corpse in front of you, before turning around and heading for the exit of the stable. 

You wait a few moments, until you’re sure that you’ve given him enough time to return to the farmhouse. You’re compelled to look down at your gun on the stable floor. It’s not the preferred weapon right now. You instead reach and grab the knife at your belt, turning it over in your hands. The metal gleams at you tauntingly. For a moment, you can see blood spilling from it. It must be a trick of the light. 

You take a step closer to Ingram’s corpse. And… another one. You’re nearly standing over the body now. Your fingers feel stuck to the knife, a frozen grip forcing you to wield the weapon. You shouldn’t be doing this. But you have to pay for what you’ve done. 

You close your eyes and reach up, knife in hand. 

For a moment, your hand hovers in the air and you contemplate going back. 

It’s a foolish thought. You can never go back to the way things were. 

Your aim rings true, and the blade sinks into your forearm. You scream. 

Through the pain shooting up your arm, you manage to shakily push yourself a bit further, reaching out with your uninjured hand to grab at Ingram’s hand. From there, you manipulate his fingers so that he’s gripping the knife. You make sure to close his hand around the blade, before taking a deep breath through your teeth.

There’s a chance you won’t survive this. 

You can’t find it in yourself to care. 

You pull the knife out with the corpse’s hand and let out an uneasy groan as pain floods through your arm. Your vision spirals, blackening around the edges and spinning in a dizzying array of colors. You feel like a marionette with limp strings, left to crumple to the ground without a puppet master. The last thing you see before your world fades to black is the neat hole carving a path straight through Ingram’s temple.

next chapter

Just in case I didn’t make it clear enough, the reader stabs himself & wipes off the prints/places the knife in the grip of the corpse. This creates a situation where it appears as if Clark stabbed the reader before he killed Clark. (Of course, the reality of the situation is that the reader killed Clark first, which he wasn’t supposed to do). By stabbing himself, he covers his tracks because he can claim that the murder was in “self-defense” and “after provocation.” It’s a little flimsy, and I’m no forensic expert, but remember that this is fiction. I can do whatever I want here. *grins*

You may be thinking: Hey, Hero (that's me)… couldn’t a stab wound like that be lethal? And the answer is… probably? I did some research to try to figure out the practicality of stabbing yourself and surviving, but it ended up triggering me so I had to stop searching.

Rationalization for Peter and his actions: Peter fades to the background once Ingram comes out of the womb because the reader is armed and serves as a blockade between Ingram and him. Peter is lurking somewhere behind you throughout the interaction, to protect himself from Ingram. Keep in mind that he is an entirely unarmed civilian, so there’s little that he could do to affect the outcome. ||| Peter does what the reader asks of him because he trusts him. Few people have ever taken the time to understand Peter, so the fact that the reader went out of his way to make him feel comfortable (such as not forcing him to talk or make eye contact) influences Peter’s view of him. Plus, Peter didn’t like Ingram. That much is obvious. Ingram’s death is not really a tragic affair for Peter. Finally, Peter was confused and searching for guidance in the chaos of the situation. So, when the reader gave him something to do, Peter jumped at the chance—in the hopes of either distracting himself or gaining clarity. ||| If I’m being perfectly honest, I don’t quite remember Peter’s canonical personality, so I sort of just… went with my gut. My gut ended up writing him to be autistic, because I’m autistic and what little I remember of him seemed to fit.

The reader’s motivations for killing Ingram could be justice, Hannibal’s influence, the cruelty of Ingram’s crimes, hallucinations… or any combination. Your pick. And don’t worry, the reader isn’t going to suddenly transform into a killing machine—this was very much an isolated incident. (..or was it? jk.) This protagonist’s morality is dubious, so that this fic can be distinguished from the TV show. I also wanted him to be darker, so sue me.

Here’s a scrap from this chapter that never made it. I like it too much to let it die out in my doc:

Idly, you imagine what Hannibal would do if he were here. He’d place a hand on yours, slowly push your weapon down until it was pointed at the ground. Perhaps he’d even slip a hand under your jaw, prompt you to look at him as he smiles that infuriating smile—the one with an equal amount of unearned pride and cunning. It doesn’t matter, you have to remind yourself. Hannibal isn’t here. No one is here—not Jack, not Beverly, not Alana. There is no one here to stop you from crossing a line you won’t be able to come back from.

As always, thank you so so much for reading! I will see you all in the new year! Wishing each of you a refreshing and relaxing start to the new year! ily <3

TAGLIST: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer @gayschlatt69

[defectivevillain]

this broken design, ch3

“Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried. You quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

read from the beginning here! [this won’t make much sense, otherwise]

[ao3 version]

reader’s pronouns are unspecified.

warnings: canon typical violence, blood, and gore; spoilers for the first few episodes

In hindsight, you should’ve expected it. Alana Bloom—your former psychiatrist—had been on vacation for the past week. She hadn’t been there to see your tremendous, spectacular descent into madness. [Well, you hesitate to call it madness, but the term feels apt enough for now.] You don’t anticipate that to be a problem, but the moment you walk into the institute in the morning, Alana accosts you.

Admittedly, you’re more surprised than you should be. She missed the whole Hobbs incident. Furthermore, Alana has been rather… invested… in your personal affairs recently. Despite the fact that she hasn’t been your psychiatrist for a few months, she still checks in on you every week or so. Alana seems to think you’re friends—and you haven’t quite found the courage to dispel the notion. Even now, as she’s practically manhandling you and guiding you to her office, you don’t move to stop her. Despite the dread coiling in your stomach, you let her close her office door and stare at you from across her desk.  

“You promised you wouldn’t get too close,” Alana says, crossing her arms over her chest and placing her palms flat against her desk. You sigh; admittedly, you had hoped that Alana wouldn’t do this— namely because her concern often feels patronizing instead of genuine. That was one of the reasons you stopped pursuing care with her—it felt as if you were getting a scolding from a parent. When Alana is finished talking, you take a deep breath.

“It was unavoidable,” you say, taking a moment to pinch the bridge of your nose and pretend that this isn’t your reality. Alana doesn’t seem very convinced. This really is just like old times—you tell her about something, she patronizes you for making the decision you made, nothing gets fixed… It takes all of your patience not to bolt right out of her office. “Hobbs had already killed his wife by the time I arrived. Any later and he would’ve escaped, Alana.” That statement finally seems to get through to her, as she folds her hands on the desk.

“I know,” Alana admits, averting her eyes for a moment, “I just… I worry about you. Is that such a bad thing?” The clock on the wall behind her ticks forebodingly. Something akin to tension settles in the air. You suddenly feel that the conversation is entirely out of your control. There’s a strangely vulnerable expression on her face and you can’t help but raise your guard.

“I guess not,” you admit with a frown. Alana takes you a step closer and you freeze right in place, entirely unsure of what she’s doing. Typically, she’s more cognizant of your need for personal space. Today, though, she’s leaning over your desk to break the distance between the two of you. Your eyes meet and she leans impossibly closer. Her fingers clasp your shirt collar and she tugs you to her. Your concentration slips for a moment as your momentum rushes forward, and you have to shoot a hand out to brace yourself against the desk. One moment, you’re careening forward; the next, Alana is kissing you.

You’re entirely frozen in her grasp. The moment you begin to process what’s happening, Alana pulls back, steps around her desk, and walks away. You stare at her retreating figure in disbelief. Your lips are tingling. What the hell just happened? You clench your fists against the wooden desk, feeling remarkably confused. It takes you an immeasurable amount of time to get a grip. When you finally manage to shake yourself out of your confused stupor, you leave Alana’s office and determinedly walk through the halls of the institute.

You manage to end up near the BAU offices, unsurprisingly. You look around the common area, surprised to find that there is no one in sight. You take a few more steps and look down the hall, only to see Beverly in the lab. You walk towards her. “Bev,” you hiss. Your friend doesn’t look up. You take a deep breath. “Bev!”

“Hey,” Beverly says, blinking at you in confusion. You resist the compelling urge to grab her by the collar and shake her. She finally tears her eyes away from whatever she’s analyzing and levels you with a scrutinizing gaze. “What’s up? You look funny.” Her eyebrows are furrowed as she looks at you.

“Wow, thanks,” you remark dryly, crossing your arms over your chest. The lab is always freezing. You really need to keep a coat or jacket in here.

“Funnier than usual, I mean,” Beverly clarifies, as if that will make the situation better. You look at her in disbelief for a moment and she stares back unflinchingly.

“Yeah, thanks,” you then respond flatly. You have to take a moment to collect your thoughts and recall why you came to her. “Anyway, I had something to tell you.”

“Ooh, is it hot goss?” Beverly smirks, eyes gleaming.

“What the hell is hot goss?” You squint at her in faux disgust. Beverly rolls her eyes.

“Hot gossip, obviously,” Beverly answers, blinking at you as if you have three heads. She grabs the clipboard she had set aside and places it on the counter next to you.

“Well, actually… it sort of is,” you grimace.

“Sweet!” Beverly grins, leaning forward in intrigue. “What is it?”

“Alana kissed me,” you choke out, the words prying your lips apart and crawling out of your mouth. Even just uttering the sentiment makes you uncomfortable. Your heart is still racing and your hands are trembling ever so slightly. It feels as if you’re in a nightmare.  

“What?” Bev exclaims loudly, freezing and looking at you in complete shock. You helplessly stare back for a few moments. Beverly searches your face—evidently trying to discern if you’re telling the truth—before shaking her head in disbelief. “Wow.”

“I know,” you remark, feeling just as lost as she looks, “I was completely shocked.”

“Um, yeah.” Beverly shakes her head in disbelief. She then looks around your immediate surroundings, as if making sure no one is around to hear. You feel slightly honored at the gesture, but mostly amused—you already spilled all the hot goss. Furthermore, you’re in the lab. The only people in here besides you two are dead and, therefore, entirely unable to eavesdrop. “So… what did you do?”

“I just stood there like a dumbass,” you admit with a sigh, putting your head in your hands. Beverly graciously allows you to do so, remaining silent and waiting for you to continue. Eventually, you get over some of your initial embarrassment and continue. “Then, I came right here to you.”

“As you should,” Beverly nods wisely. She crosses her arms over her chest and grins victoriously. “As you fucking should.” You roll your eyes fondly. It only takes a few moments for the reality of the situation to come crashing down on you again.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper, just loud enough for your friend to hear. You bite your lip and try to pretend as if the world hasn’t been thrown off its axis. That whole encounter with Alana was entirely unexpected, and you wish you could just forget it. If only you could turn back time to about an hour ago, before you had crossed paths with Alana…

“Well, you don’t have to do anything, obviously,” Beverly interjects, squinting at you as if the solution to that problem is obvious. Her confidence pulls you out of your spiraling thoughts. “It was entirely her decision to do that. You had no choice in the matter. In fact, she should have asked you before she kissed you… Do you want me to beat her up?”

“No, don’t beat her up,” you say, choking on a laugh. Bev smiles victoriously. You can’t get rid of the rather amusing mental picture that comes with Beverly’s suggestion. “But, yeah, you might be right.”

“Of course I am,” Beverly squints at you worriedly, as if the mere idea of thinking otherwise is cause for concern. “I’m always right.”

“Unfortunately, you usually are,” you acquiesce, earning a mischievous smirk from Beverly. The conversation soon falls away from your interaction with Alana earlier that morning, thankfully.

The universe seems to be smiling down on you, because, after a few hours of work, Jack lets you go home early. You have a lingering suspicion that it may have something to do with the distracted mindset you were stuck in. A few times, you zoned out so much that someone had to shake your shoulder or snap their fingers in front of your face. You’re just… overwhelmed, to be honest. Alana kissing you was not on your bingo card for this year—that’s for sure.

Fortunately, you manage to have a rather calming rest of your night. You push aside all thoughts of Alana and work, and instead just try to relax. Somehow, the attempt works and you’re able to get a good night’s sleep. The next morning, you feel surprisingly rejuvenated and refreshed. You don’t have to go into work until later, so you’re content to make breakfast and then work on tidying up your house. Within a few hours, you’ve done your laundry and washed Hannibal’s clothes—which you plan to give back to him today; you also cleaned around the house and did some of the more unpleasant chores that you’d been putting off. Overall, it’s quite the productive day. So, when your phone alarm goes off to remind you of your appointment with Hannibal, you walk out to the car and start driving over with a content smile on your face.

You park your car and mechanically make your way into the office. The waiting room is blissfully empty and you take a seat in the chair in the far corner. You’re a bit early, so you’re forced to wait a bit before Hannibal comes out of his office. “Please, come in.” Hannibal’s voice breaks you from your thoughts. You look up from where you’d been staring at the ground, only to find the psychiatrist standing in the doorway to his office. He motions for you to follow him and you do so without hesitation. Just as Hannibal shuts the door behind him, you remember what you meant to return to him.

“Here, I have these… before I forget,” you remark, extending your arms to reveal the neatly folded clothes that he lent you days ago. “I washed them a few times, don’t worry.” The psychiatrist reaches out and, somehow, your fingers brush his as you hand the articles to him.

“I wasn’t worried,” Hannibal remarks with a mix of amusement and confusion. You raise an eyebrow at him, but he doesn’t explain that sentiment any further. He walks over to his desk and you decide to head for the chairs. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch a flicker of movement. When you turn your head, you swear you see him smelling the pile of folded clothes. Do you really smell that bad? You shake your head and pretend that you didn’t see anything.

Once Hannibal returns from his desk, the session is underway. You talk about your day and what’s weighing on your mind. Hannibal asks you about work and you immediately think of the institute. Although you're sure that he’s inquiring about the Ripper or any other killers you’re searching for, you can’t quite control the sharp turn your mind takes toward your encounter with Alana. The words are slipping from your tongue before you can stop them.

“Alana kissed me,” you blurt out, quickly looking down and hoping Hannibal didn’t hear anything. Unfortunately, Hannibal is rather perceptive and he seems to have heard your remark. There’s a mysterious expression on his face and his eye twitches for a millisecond. “I don’t know why I said that, I’m so sorry.” That’s likely something Hannibal could have done without hearing. Oops.

“It seems to be causing you significant distress.” Hannibal remarks, no trace of emotion anywhere on his face. Sometimes, you wish you were that good at hiding your feelings. “I presume you’re talking about Alana Bloom; how do you know her?”

“She was my psychiatrist for a little while,” you decide to say. You’re debating keeping the latter part of your relationship a secret, but Hannibal is looking unusually attentive and you can’t find any reason to keep it hidden. “We dated for a little while, but that was years ago.” There’s a brief pause where Hannibal doesn’t say anything and you fall quiet.

“You broke up.” The statement is phrased like a question and you begin to catch on. You’re unable to get rid of the smile on your face at the realization. For the first time, Hannibal looks interested. More than that, he looks utterly enraptured. He is awaiting your answer with thinly concealed anticipation. You grin.

“You want all the gory details, huh?” You stare at Hannibal, letting the silence drag on for several moments. You can almost feel the tension in the air. Folding your hands in your lap, you mimic his posture and lean forward. Hannibal watches quietly. You make sure to look at him with an open expression. “That’s unlike you, Dr. Lecter.” Hannibal blinks and you smirk victoriously.

“Apologies; it seems I have overstepped,” the psychiatrist remarks, a mildly apologetic smile on his face. You get the feeling that he isn’t truly remorseful—he’s just apologetic because you called him out. You can’t stop the short huff of amusement that spills from your lips. Hannibal raises an eyebrow, but he continues regardless. “It appears Miss Bloom still cares for you.”

“Apparently,” you acquiesce, giving up on the rather enjoyable game of manipulating Hannibal. Unfortunately, the moment you let your focus slip, the interaction from yesterday dominates your thoughts again. You can’t stop berating yourself for it. You should’ve paid more attention to the signs, you should’ve pushed her away, you should’ve…

“You seem unusually fixated on it,” Hannibal interrupts, raising his eyebrows at you. The fire crackles in the fireplace, illuminating the room in an amber glow. Hannibal’s eyes glow in the dim lighting and you’re briefly reminded of how dangerous the man is. His expression turns from amused to expectant and you have to break away from your thoughts.

“It wasn’t entirely… wanted; she kind of just grabbed me before I could do anything,” you grimace at the memory. There is pure malice written in the lines of Hannibal’s body—his shoulders are tight and his lips are pulled taut in a flat line. “I thought we were just friends,” you continue, pretending not to notice the murderous aura coming from Hannibal’s general direction. “I’m just the worst at reading the subtext like that.”

“Reading the subtext is an apt description,” Hannibal nods thoughtfully, after a rather painful moment of silence. You swear he’s still leaning forward in his chair, as if trying to breach the distance between you. “You didn’t know about her feelings.”

“I didn’t have a damn clue; embarrassing, isn’t it?” You shake your head, starting to analyze your past interactions and connect the dots. Alana had been weirdly tactile for a short period, there… You had just dismissed it to be friendly contact. Evidently, it was a lot more than that.

“Why would that be that embarrassing?” Hannibal queries, squinting at you. You take a deep breath and try to collect your thoughts.  

“We both wanted different things,” you manage to say, after reflecting upon the events of the day. You never realized that Alana wanted more. You really thought the breakup was the end of things. Apparently not, you think wryly. It takes a lot of effort to stop yourself from overanalyzing every interaction you’ve had with her, searching for the moments when you should’ve n​​oticed her feelings.

“She wanted things you couldn’t give her,” Hannibal says, staring at you intently. You swallow hard, feeling as if the conversation has taken an uncomfortable turn.

“Yeah,” you eventually agree. “That’s a rather typical theme in my life,” you say, before Hannibal can say the same thing. Sure enough, the psychiatrist nods. Silence stretches across the space and it is painfully awkward. The atmosphere feels extremely tense. You take a deep breath and decide to change the subject. “Other than that, I’ve been… okay. It’s been weird, lately. The Ripper hasn’t been active in over a year.”

“That unsettles you,” Hannibal says.

“I feel like I’m letting my guard down,” you finally admit. You had been carrying the sentiment for a while there. Once you utter the words, though, you realize their gravity. You truly have felt uneasy without the Ripper’s murders. “Then, when he does kill again, I won’t be prepared.”

“No one is truly prepared for death,” Hannibal says. You roll your eyes and cross your arms over your chest.

“I just mean… I feel weirdly off-kilter,” you clarify, before Hannibal can launch into another weird extended metaphor. “I feel like… the Ripper has grown to define me. What kind of person does that make me?”

“Your work is rather immersive.” The justification sounds rather weak. Still, you appreciate the gesture nonetheless. There’s a weirdly restrained look on Hannibal’s face, as if he’s actively forcing himself to remain silent and not speak again. You try to pretend that you never noticed.

“Unfortunately,” you acknowledge, taking a shuddering breath in. It suddenly feels a lot warmer in this office space. You pull at your collar and Hannibal’s eyes track the movement. “Still. I’ve never felt such a connection with any other killer. It’s weird… When I see his murders, I can feel exactly what he was feeling.” Hannibal raises his eyebrows, nonverbally asking you to elaborate. “Typically, I can sense what the killer was feeling at the time of the murder. With the Ripper, though, I can genuinely feel what he felt. The sensation takes a few hours to subside. Then, I’m left feeling strangely… empty.”

“The Ripper gives your life purpose.” You swallow hard and take a deep breath at that. You’re unable to utter any words; you wrap your arms around yourself, feeling the need to shield yourself from everything. Your breaths start to feel a bit more laborious. After a few moments, you chance a glance up at Hannibal. You’re expecting eyes gleaming in distrust, posture tight with discomfort, anything. You’re certainly not expecting the strange mix of pride and hunger written in the slight pull to his lips. “I’m not one to question how another conducts their life.” The complex expression resting on Hannibal’s face is rather unnerving. You have to take a few seconds to actively process and comprehend his statement.

“Sure you aren’t,” you remark loftily. Hannibal’s gaze sharpens and intensifies significantly. You meet his eyes and raise your eyebrows. Hannibal is one of the most judgmental people you’ve ever met—he just knows how to hide it behind a charming twist of his lips. You almost utter those words aloud, before you realize that the psychiatrist’s attention has been captured by the elegant watch sitting on his wrist.

Hannibal smiles apologetically at you and, for a moment, it almost looks sincere. You resist the urge to call him out on the gesture. “It looks like we’re out of time for today,” he remarks. “Shall we continue this conversation next week?”

“Sure,” you agree easily. The time had really flown by. Usually, your sessions felt a lot longer. Although, you’ve had a lot weighing on your mind recently. Indeed, your shoulders feel lighter when you get up to your feet. You smile at Hannibal. “Bye.” As you walk away, you feel his eyes digging into your back. Even as you get in your car and drive away, his words run through your mind.

The Ripper gives your life purpose.

chapter four

[defectivevillain]

this broken design, ch 4

summary

“Dr. Lecter?” You blink a few times, convinced that you’re dreaming. The man’s gleaming eyes and concerned expression seem a bit too realistic to be conjured by your sleeping mind, though. You’re not sure if you’ve ever seen him look worried. You quickly decide that you don’t like it.

“Hannibal, please,” the doctor responds nonchalantly. You stare at him in utter confusion. Just what is happening right now? You thought you were dreaming, but this feels a bit too vivid. “What are you doing out here?”

read from the beginning here! [this won’t make much sense, otherwise]

[ao3 version]

warnings: mentions of religion & religious trauma, suicidal ideation. there’s also mention of coming out and the difficulties with finding identity (in terms of both gender and sexuality).

The air is cold and frigid. You puff out a breath as you lock your car and walk up the path steps towards Hannibal’s office. Your appointment is in a few minutes. Honestly, looking back, you’re surprised that you’ve been seeing Hannibal for so long. Your past therapists never lasted long—you’d either scare them off or they’d say something that hinted at their true, rather dislikable character. You seem to be making genuine progress in your meetings with Hannibal. As much as you’d like to tease and mock him for his rather lavish tastes, he’s good at what he does.

Your conversation from the last session is still running through your mind. It had been rather difficult to keep your awareness hidden; after all, you’re pretty sure that Hannibal isn’t aware of your knowledge of the Ripper [namely, that you know he is the Chesapeake Ripper]. Since your last session, you’ve been to his home a few times. You must admit, it feels rather weird each time you visit his residence. Hannibal is just so… different from you—he’s much more sophisticated and upper-class. You’ve never really made friends with people like that before. Ironically, his affluence isn’t even the strangest quality about him. After all, he eats people. You have to be careful about what you eat when you’re at his home—you’re starting to run out of excuses for not consuming his cooking. One time, you said you had already eaten. Another time, you ate it but then had to go to the bathroom to spit it out. Digesting human meat is not one of your desires. Just the thought makes your stomach turn. You get the nagging feeling that Hannibal knows your excuses aren’t exactly genuine, but he hasn’t said anything yet. In the meantime, you’ll continue to feign ignorance.

You aren’t waiting in the lobby of Hannibal’s office for very long before Hannibal is ushering you in. “Please, have a seat,” he says, closing the door behind you and then gesturing at the open chairs. You squint at the chairs. They look closer together, for some reason. You sit down and blink at Hannibal, who stares back at you for a few moments. Before long, the tension is gone and you’re talking about your recent fieldwork. Unsurprisingly, your conversation soon falls to Garret Jacob Hobbs. His death has been weighing on you more than you’d like to admit.

“I can’t stop thinking about Hobbs,” you say. Hannibal raises an eyebrow. “I’ve been losing sleep because of it.” Your sleep has never been very good to begin with, but since the Hobbs incident, you spend even more time lying awake at night. You can never decide if you want to sleep and watch yourself murder the man again, or remain awake and sleep-deprived. It’s a lose-lose situation, really.

“In your dreams, what do you see?”

“I see myself killing him,” you respond. Hannibal doesn’t seem surprised by the admission. “Over and over and over again. I see Abigail slowly fading on that kitchen floor. I see the blood spattered on my hands. And… I feel a smile on my face.” You’ve had nightmares about killers before. Hobbs, though… You’re certain he’ll stay with you forever. Your first kill.

“And, when you wake up?” Hannibal asks. You fall silent and he continues to clarify. “Dreams are often a pathway into the parts of our minds that we hide away from others. Perhaps there is some truth in these dreams. Perhaps, what you’re most afraid of…”

“I don’t feel guilty,” you supply with a whisper, so quickly and quietly that you’re certain Hannibal won’t hear it. Somehow, he does notice your remark and he raises an eyebrow. The words slip from your lips before you can stop them. “Killing Hobbs felt good.” There’s a buzzing sound reverberating in your ears as you finally utter the words that have been weighing you down for so long. You clench your fists at your sides and dig your nails into your palms.

“You shot him nine times,” Hannibal points out. The statement is not intended to be malicious— it’s merely truthful. Hannibal looks entirely relaxed, as he clasps his hands and stares at you expectantly. You take a deep breath, feeling rather overwhelmed with his insistent gaze.

“I know,” you say. “I just- I couldn’t get rid of this bone-deep urge to make him hurt—the way he hurt all those girls. I wanted… vengeance. Is that so wrong?” That last question is rhetorical in nature, but the gleam in Hannibal’s eyes sharpens. The fire in the fireplace spits out embers.

“It is not,” Hannibal responds. Of course the Chesapeake Ripper would believe that, you think to yourself. You’re not sure how reassuring his statement is, though. “Killing must feel good to God, too. He does it all the time, and are we not created in his image?” A shiver rolls down your spine at that. Is that how Hannibal justifies his own kills? As you dissect that statement, memories flicker before your eyes—church pews, gilded crosses, menacing stares.

“That’s a whole different can of worms,” you murmur after a few seconds, leaning back in your chair and crossing one leg over the other. You intend for the remark to be for yourself, but Hannibal seems to hear it anyway.

“Religion?” You nod, your throat burning. Hannibal stares at you and, while he doesn’t ask for you to continue, there is a somewhat expectant look on his face. You decide to indulge him, if only for the fact that his gaze is rather intense. Plus, hell, you’re already here. This is supposed to be therapy, after all.

“I grew up in a religious household,” you start, trying to collect your thoughts. Your heart is racing out of your chest—you’d never gotten this far with any of your other therapists. “Kind of delayed the whole… realization of my gender identity and sexuality.” Hannibal doesn’t seem the slightest bit surprised at the mention of either concept. You have to tell yourself not to think about that.

“How so?” The psychiatrist isn’t demanding in his questioning—he just seems… curious. You can’t help but feel grateful for the fact that Hannibal isn’t trying to pry this information out of you. Your past experiences made you think that you always had to disclose information, regardless of how painful it was to do so.

“Anything that falls outside of the binary is sinful. That’s what I was taught, at least. I wasn’t given any room for questioning and introspection, so I spent the better part of my young life pretending to be someone else.” You take a deep breath.

“Obviously, that wore me down. I figured it all out and I’m here now, but…  I didn’t expect myself to make it this long.” Memories flash before your eyes, as you remember all the melancholy birthday parties and the existential dread that plagued you for so long. You chance a glance at Hannibal, who looks extremely troubled by your last statement. You know it’s mostly professional concern, but the tightness to his frame almost makes you think his concern is of a different nature. You quickly rid yourself of the notion. His entire job revolves around keeping you happy and, well, alive. Surely that’s the only source of his concern. After all, it would reflect badly on him if you were to… Well.

“I am glad you’re here, if that is any consolation,” Hannibal remarks, after the silence begins to hurt. You long gave up on trying to return his eye contact—it’s too overwhelming. Despite the fact that you’re steadily avoiding his gaze, you can still feel his eyes fixated on you. It’s clear that Hannibal can read through the lines and ascertain the true meaning behind your admission.“I would be… saddened, to say the least, if you weren’t.” The clock on the opposite wall ticks and for a moment, you’re so mesmerized by its movement that you don’t fully comprehend Hannibal’s statement. When you manage to process it, you feel your eyes begin to burn.

“Thanks,” you choke out. Tears slip down your face and you wipe them away quickly. You always hated crying. You bury your head in your hands and take a moment to close your eyes, trying to avoid the acknowledgement that you’re crying in front of Hannibal. As you recollect your composure, you notice that there’s an element of restraint evident in Hannibal’s posture—as if he’s stopping himself from breaking the distance between you and placing a comforting hand on your shoulder. He’s a good friend, you think to yourself.

After you regain your composure, you talk a little more about your upbringing and the long, harrowing process that brought you to where you are now. Hannibal mostly listens, but he occasionally asks clarifying questions or offers comments. You find the practice to be relieving; you’ve never quite talked about this journey with anyone.

After an immeasurable amount of time, there’s a brief lull in the conversation and you allow your gaze to wander. Your eyes find the window and, to your surprise, you realize that it’s dark outside. A glance down at your watch tells you that your appointment should have been finished a few minutes ago.

“It’s been fifty minutes,” you remark, surprised that you’re the one to bring it up. Hannibal always keeps track of the time for you. In fact, you think that he has his watch for that specific purpose. It’s rather uncharacteristic of him to lose track of time.

“Forgive me,” Hannibal says, standing up and looking down at you. You feel weirdly intimidated by the gesture, as he practically looms over you from your sitting position. “I was enchanted by your story.” You place your hands on the arms of the chair, seeking physical support. You almost feel like a pinned butterfly—flayed apart and thrown on display for him to dissect with a clever eye.

“I’m not sure enchanted is the word you’re looking for, but alright.” You frown, pushing yourself off the chair and pacing around his office. You feel unusually restless; this particular session was freeing, but it also took a lot of energy to retell your story.

“Isn’t it?” You swivel on your heel, only for Hannibal to be right behind you. You lean back habitually, feeling rather winded all of a sudden. Your back falls against the ladder behind you. Hannibal is trapping you. You grasp the wooden ladder and inhale sharply. You feel like prey cornered by a predator—a deer faced with a prowling lion. In this very moment, you can see exactly why the Chesapeake Ripper is so dangerous. Hannibal’s brown eyes are the darkest you’ve ever seen them; looking into them feels like staring into a deep dark void.

Hannibal leans closer—to do something—when suddenly the door to the office falls open. You turn to look at the disturbance, only to find a man in the doorway. He looks from you to Hannibal—who is still standing quite close to you—and his eyebrows furrow. “Doctor Lecter,” the man says, tearing you from your thoughts. You look at him in confusion. The man must have let himself in. You can’t quite hide a grimace at that. From what you’ve learned about Hannibal so far, he absolutely abhors rudeness. Entering his office without invitation and interrupting a conversation is certainly impolite.

“Franklyn,” Hannibal remarks, his back to the door. His eyes are still fixated on you, and his breath nearly hits your neck as he speaks. “I wasn’t expecting you just yet.” Hannibal looks entirely irritated and frustrated, unsurprisingly. What is surprising, however, is the source of his anger. It’s as if he’s resentful of the fact that your conversation was cut short.

“It’s six o’clock,” the man frowns, his gaze wandering to the clock on the wall. “You must have gotten distracted!” He clearly means that lightly, but Hannibal’s expression is cold and blank. Thankfully, the man—Franklyn, apparently—can’t see it. Instead, he just vibrates incessantly from the doorway. You can’t be bothered to argue with this turn of events, so instead you nod at Hannibal and step around him.

Before you leave, however, you take a moment to assess the stranger that begs Hannibal’s attention. Franklyn appears to be a rather sweaty man, and he’s wearing weirdly formal attire for a therapy session. There’s something about him that sets you off, but you’re not sure what it is. Franklyn appears to be innocent enough, but there’s something dark lurking underneath his surface. You’re sure that you don’t want to know what it could be, so you settle for walking out of the office and closing the door behind you. The sickening sweetness of the man’s neuroticism clings to your skin and you feel the visceral need to take a shower.

“Who was that?” You hear the man ask Hannibal once you’re in the waiting room. You don’t intend to overhear their conversation, but Franklyn isn’t exactly quiet. Curious to hear Hannibal’s explanation, you freeze in place and wait to hear his response. His voice is just barely heard through the wooden door. You’re more than aware that eavesdropping isn’t exactly polite, but you don’t really care. Besides, you’re not listening in on the actual session—just the casual conversation they’re having. Selfishly speaking, you want to hear what Hannibal thinks of you.

“...A friend.” You feel a smile growing on your face. You don’t stay to hear Franklyn’s response to that—instead deigning to step out of the waiting room and walk back to your car. Despite having little context for the conversation, you’re happy with the thought of Hannibal considering you a friend. When you finally slip into bed that night, calculating brown eyes and a kind yet dangerous smile follow you in your dreams.

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