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defectivevillain · 1 month

Text

through gritted teeth

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no pronouns or physical descriptors are used.

summary:

The man says he’s your husband. He’s polite, charming, intelligent. He seems a little pretentious, but he appears to know you rather well and the thinly-veiled devotion in his eyes dispels most of your remaining doubts. It certainly helps that the man is rather well-dressed—and attractive, a traitorous voice in the back of your mind whispers. Unfortunately, you have no idea who he is.

word count: 3.8k | ao3 version

You wake up to fluorescent lighting burning into your eyes, pulling tears down your cheeks as you blink stars from your vision. Your entire body aches with exhaustion and you can feel a headache brewing already. Groaning, you try to push yourself up to a sitting position. There’s an IV attached to your arm and, upon closer inspection, you seem to be in some sort of hospital room. White walls line the space, and there’s nothing much of note in your immediate vicinity. You blink a few more times past your absurdly dry eyes and continue inspecting the room, until your eyes catch on the chair to the right side of your bed.

There’s a man sitting at your bedside with his eyes closed. He stirs within a few moments, as if he can sense you staring at him. Relief is written all over his face as he leans forward and clasps your hand with a small smile on his face. You can’t stop yourself from instinctively flinching at the contact and he notices, removing his hand at once.

“Do you remember who I am?” He asks. His words are carefully constructed, strung together with eloquence and remnants of what sounds like an accent from a European country. You blink at him once, twice. It takes a moment for you to process the question, and another to contemplate the answer. The man doesn’t look familiar. Indeed, he looks like a stranger.

When you tell him as much, a sad smile works its way onto his face. It seems he expected your answer. He begins to explain the circumstances surrounding your visit here, which you are immensely grateful for. You know next to nothing as you sit in this hospital bed, and, try as you might, you can’t remember anything save for your name.

Apparently, you’ve suffered a serious head injury that left you with a spontaneous case of amnesia. Fortunately, your memories will likely return to you in due time. Somehow, these two revelations aren’t the most shocking of statements from the stranger. What the man reveals next shakes you to your core: he’s your husband.

Upon closer examination, you find that the man is charming, polite… He’s rather attractive, too, with fine-combed hair and sparkling brown eyes with flecks of amber. His face looks as if it was sculpted by Michelangelo himself—sweeping lines, sharp edges, soft curves. The man is intelligent and [perhaps as a result] a little pretentious. From his attire, you can only assume that he makes a lot of money and has rather particular tastes. You could see someone like this going to the opera regularly.

But there’s something else about this man—something lurking beneath the surface. You can’t puzzle out what it is. There’s something sinister concealed in those reddish-brown eyes, an unspoken violence in the man’s careful poise. And you think you catch him intently scrutinizing you—as if you’re under a microscope.

You soon learn that the man’s name is Hannibal Lecter. He’s a psychiatrist who used to be a surgeon. He’s in his 40s. He has refined tastes—and even goes to the opera on occasion, yes. He is fascinating, intriguing beyond measure. He discusses heavily philosophical topics with ease. He is slippery, only giving you the information he wants to give you. He has a very controlled image. The dishes he cooks you are extravagant and lavish, with ingredients you’ve never even heard of. (The meat in them is always some sort of organ, and it turns your stomach every time.)

In the wake of your injury, you’re unsure of almost everything. But you know one thing for certain: Hannibal is not your husband. And you’re convinced that he’s dangerous. You don’t trust him—can’t trust his carefully crafted words, his home-cooked meals, his polite smiles. It’s all a farce.

It would be all too easy to ask your next visitor about this well-dressed, enigmatic man. Unfortunately, you don’t get any other visitors. In fact, your next visitor is Hannibal again… And again. And again. It gets to the point where your nurse gives up on having him sign in when he visits. At first, she had been rather strict in enforcing the rules; she seems to have caught onto something that you still haven’t grasped, because she now collects herself with an entirely different—almost heightened—awareness.

You’re having increasingly conflicting feelings, especially when you consider the fact that Hannibal hasn’t actually exhibited any behavior that justifies your wariness and suspicion. If anything, he’s been the perfect supporter—the perfect husband—throughout your recovery. You want to believe your gut sense, want to believe the whispers in the back of your mind that tell you to exercise caution. But, at the same time, who’s to say they can be believed? You still have almost no recollection of who you are. Why are you questioning the only person who has bothered to show up for you throughout your recovery?

Days pass in the blink of an eye; before you know it, Hannibal is walking in one morning with the declaration that you’ve been officially discharged from the hospital. Despite your misgivings, you head to the bathroom to change into some normal clothes before putting on the pair of shoes near the door. Your heart is racing as Hannibal’s gaze refuses to leave your form. Why can’t your mind rest? Why can’t your thoughts be silent, for once? Why are you so damn suspicious of every minute kindness?

The walk out of the hospital and through the parking lot is painfully silent. You can’t resist sneaking glances at Hannibal, waiting for his mask to crack and fall. It never does. He catches you looking and sends you a smile, which discourages you from looking again. You let your eyes roam about the shiny cars in the parking lot as the warm afternoon sunlight greets your skin. You missed the fresh air.

“Where are you taking me?” You finally ask, as you continue to follow behind the man.

“Home,” Hannibal remarks. He pointedly does not say your home or even our home. Your heart is racing in your chest. His back is turned, leaving you to imagine the expression on his face.

It isn’t until you’re secured in the front seat and Hannibal’s driving out of the parking lot that you summon the courage to utter the question that has been plaguing your mind. “Are you really my husband?”

“Hm?” It’s clear he heard you; he’s giving you a chance to retract the remark. You know you should take it, but… you want to know what’s going on. You need to find an answer for the seemingly irrational fear drumming in your chest and rushing in your ears.

“You say you’re my husband,” You repeat yourself, gaining a bit more confidence. “But I don’t think you are.” For an awful moment, there’s nothing but silence. The car zips along the road. You feel your hand trembling at your side—hopefully the only visible sign of your distress. You clench your shaking hand into a fist and try to remain calm. Panicking won’t do you any good.

“Do you remember how we first met?” Hannibal asks instead. You stare at him in disbelief, surprised by how he completely ignores your accusation. There is an utter lack of emotion on his face. Seconds later, you remember his question and shake your head. “You’re an FBI agent,” Hannibal reveals. “I was called in to perform your psychiatric evaluation.”

Great. Just great. Out of all things, you had to be an FBI agent. The thought of forgetting your work—forgetting all the victims left to die in muddied puddles of crimson, forgetting all the killers with mocking smiles and cruelty written in the lines of their faces—is sincerely troubling.

And Hannibal is a psychiatrist. That seems to fit—you can see him in a needlessly extravagant office, surrounded by books and expensive elegancies. You have to shake your head to get rid of the weirdly vivid imagery that your thoughts produce. “Are you… my psychiatrist, then?” You ask.

“If you wish,” he replies with a mirthful smile. That answer doesn’t satisfy your curiosity—not in the slightest.

“Were you my psychiatrist?” You press. You get the feeling that you need to be asking the right questions in order to get the answers you want. The man across from you is adept at picking apart people’s words, flipping them around and twisting their intended meaning. Your wording will be immensely important.

“I was your psychiatrist, for a time,” Hannibal acquiesces. From that statement, you get the sense that he really was your psychiatrist, until something evidently happened. You ask him as much, but you seem to go too far, because he regards you with an amused glance. “You’re asking a lot of questions.”

“And you’re not giving me any answers,” you feel the need to respond. You have simultaneous suspicions that honesty is dangerous in front of Hannibal, and that he values honesty above sugar-coated words. Your eyebrows furrow. “You haven’t exactly been forthcoming with information.”

“Is that so?” Hannibal is providing more questions in lieu of answers. He’s definitely hiding something. Sensing that you won’t get anything more from him, you fall silent and settle for staring at him out of the corner of your eye. His gaze is locked on the road ahead. Despite the time you’ve spent together, talking about your past, you still aren’t totally convinced that you’re married to Hannibal. Is there a way you could test him—test his knowledge of you? Surely there’s something you can ask him to determine if he truly knows you or not.

It comes to you a moment later. “What’s my favorite color?” You ask, before you can think better of it. The man doesn’t react at first, instead staring straight ahead. Just before you can repeat the question, he answers.

“I can’t imagine you have a favorite color,” Hannibal responds. “You once told me the very notion was foolish.”

Okay, he’s sort of correct there. But that was an easy question. You sort through the few memories you have, looking for something you can ask him. “What’s my middle name?” That’s an answer that you just barely know yourself—a memory came back to you a mere few minutes ago, of you and your childhood friend talking about middle names and nicknames and other unimportant things.

Hannibal answers the question correctly again. The two of you must’ve been friends, at the very least. You continue to search your mind for something you can ask him.

Five minutes and several questions later, you’re starting to doubt your own conviction. Hannibal answers every single question correctly, providing you with information you don’t remember but know deep-down to be true. It’s unnerving and disturbing to think that you could’ve forgotten this man so easily. He seems… utterly unforgettable, in every sense of the word. Furthermore, he’s your husband—perhaps you shouldn’t be doubting him so easily.

“I’m sorry,” you blurt out, before you can quite contemplate your next words. Hannibal’s eyes are locked on the road, but you know he’s listening. “I don’t mean to doubt you, I just- I don’t know what to do. I don’t remember anything, obviously, and… I feel so lost.” You choke out, your throat burning. You bury your head in your hands for a selfish moment, hoping for some solace and clarity.

“Don’t apologize, dear,” Hannibal says. You hate how the remark sends a shiver down your spine. Damn it, why can’t you just be comfortable? This man is practically a dream, so why are you trying to ruin it? Can’t you just accept that, sometimes, you deserve to have nice things?! Hannibal continues, unknowing of your internal dilemma. “You’re going through a lot right now. I’m just happy to be here with you.”

You feel ashamed, knowing that you’ve been holding yourself back despite the fact that Hannibal has shown you nothing but compassion and affection. “I’m… happy you’re here, too,” you say. Guilt prickling in your chest, you impulsively reach out and clasp his free hand resting on the console. Somehow, this surprises your husband, because he stiffens for a second before reciprocating, gripping your hand reassuringly.

“We will get through this,” he promises. You push aside your doubts and decide to believe him.

Maybe things really will be alright. Maybe, you’ll get your memories back sooner rather than later, and you’ll be able to look back on these moments—riddled with doubt, insecurity, wariness—and laugh. You take a deep breath and look out the window, watching the passing trees blur together.

Your hand slips from Hannibal’s and you look at your nails, picking at your cuticles. Your hands are somewhat indicative of the life you led—the one you don’t remember living—with a few scars stretching down your wrist and climbing up your forearm. You look down at the healed wound and frown, trying to remember how you got the scar.

Suddenly, you get a flicker of a memory. It’s faint and fast, but it’s a reminder of the past nonetheless. You squint ahead, trying to focus on keeping the flashback in your mind for long enough to dissect it. You remember… blood. A corpse, perhaps? Yes, a corpse. A woman’s corpse, hoisted and impaled on antlers. You remember… staring at that corpse for so long that you had to be physically led away from the scene, albeit with a gnawing feeling in your gut that something just wasn’t right. You remember… walking into an office, only to be met with Hannibal’s curious gaze. That must’ve been the first time you met the psychiatrist. You put a hand to your temple and try desperately to concentrate.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Hannibal says, effectively throwing your focus. You blink and chance a glance at him. He’s still looking at the road, yet you can’t shake the perplexing conviction that he’s been watching you. What’s more, you can’t shake the feeling that his interjection was purposeful—that he meant to throw you off and break your concentration.

“I- just remembered something,” you choke out, feeling a bolt of pain slide down your scalp to the back of your neck. You bring a hand to the nape of your neck and press, hissing as your fingers glide over sore muscles. “Something important.”

“Congratulations,” Hannibal hums, immune to your internal panic. You don’t know exactly what this man did, but he must’ve done something. Your subconscious is convinced that he is incredibly dangerous, and you feel inclined to trust your gut.

Another flashback arrives, apropos of nothing. You remember sitting across from Hannibal in a finely-decorated room, lined with bookshelves and artifacts. You remember averting your eyes as you speak, desperate to avoid the roaring flames racing up your skin with every additional moment of prolonged eye contact. You remember… a twisted grin on Hannibal’s face. You remember… the intensity to his gaze as he studied you when he thought you weren’t looking.

Unsettled, you shake your head and try to refocus on the passing scenery again. To your surprise, you think you recognize where you are. Hannibal must be taking you home. You take a deep breath. You just have to survive this car ride—then you can figure things out from there. You have all the time in the world to muse on the nature of your injury and the nature of your “husband,” once you’re safely contained within four walls. Right now, though, you need to be wary. You need to have your wits about you, you need to watch for any sudden movements, you need to be ready-

“We’re here,” Hannibal announces, promptly throwing your thought process to a halt. You blink and look ahead, only to find a nondescript home with beige siding and a somewhat weathered front door. Vaguely, you remember pulling your car into this driveway, remember unpacking boxes from your trunk. Yes, this is your house. Hannibal is much quicker on the uptake, as he gets out of the car and walks around the vehicle. You don’t realize that he’s opening the passenger door for you until you feel him staring at you expectantly. You thank him and get to your feet, a sudden bout of dizziness sending you wobbling. Hannibal is there in a moment, steadying you with a hand on your forearm. You pretend not to notice his hand on the small of your back as you walk up the path to the front porch. When you’re finally situated in front of the entrance, you realize that you have no idea where your keys could be.

“Left pocket of your jacket,” Hannibal murmurs, as if reading your mind. You nearly choke on a breath.

“Thanks,” you respond a bit breathlessly. When you finally manage to unlock the front door and swing it open, you turn back to face him. “Well, thank you for the ride.”

“Of course,” Hannibal responds easily. There’s a regretful smile rising on his face. Everything around you fades to obscurity. “I’m afraid this is goodbye.” That remark sounds strangely ominous. Your heart is in your throat.

“Thank you for keeping me company,” you feel the need to say, regardless of your suspicions about the man. He was the only one to visit you. You don’t want to think about how you would feel if you spent your entire hospital visit without a single familiar face. “...Bye.” Suddenly, there’s a hand on your cheek. Hannibal’s hand cradles your jaw, his thumb gently roving along your skin. He regards you for a moment, his eyes sparkling, before kissing you on the cheek and leaving. You watch him return to his car and drive away, apprehension and adrenaline coursing through you. Somehow, you get the feeling that you’ll never see Hannibal again.

Your doorbell rings about an hour later. You look through your peephole, only to find a somewhat intimidating man with his hands shoved in his pockets. You have to focus on quelling the foolish spike of hope that had risen in your chest when the doorbell rang, and the subsequent disappointment at the unfamiliar figure you found. You take a second glance at the stranger, only to find that he looks somewhat familiar. This vague familiarity convinces you to crack your front door open slightly and ask him, “Who are you?”

The man pulls something out of his pocket. “Jack Crawford, FBI,” he answers, showing you his identification card. You stare at him for another moment. “Your boss.” Crawford supplies, when you can’t seem to get the words out. After a few seconds of awkward silence, you decide to invite him inside.

Before long, the two of you are settled in your living room. The tension that first appeared when you opened your front door has yet to fade. You’re not sure why this man has yet to crop up in your memories—he has a rather powerful aura of authority, not to mention the fact that he’s apparently your superior. You decide not to beat yourself up about it. Your memories will come back in due time; until then, you’ll make do with what little you have.

Crawford—Jack, he tells you to call him—clasps his hands over his knees and levels you with an unreadable gaze. “I need to ask you something,” Jack says, rifling through his other pocket and pulling out a folded piece of paper. He unfolds it slowly, before revealing it to you. “Do you remember this man? Hannibal Lecter?” Jack explains, immune to your growing dread. You feel sick to your stomach as your eyes flit across the black-and-white photograph of the same man who watched over you vigilantly as you recovered, who claimed to be your husband and kissed you on the cheek mere moments ago. “He’s the Chesapeake Ripper—the serial killer who has been evading capture.”

“I-” You stammer, bringing a hand to your temple. Your headache from earlier is returning and your head is spinning from this sudden disclosure. You almost don’t want to believe Jack, but you get the feeling that he’d have no reason to lie to you. If anything, lying would just make his job harder. You take a shuddering breath in, trying to come to terms with the fact that you just narrowly escaped a serial killer’s grasp.

“It’s alright,” Jack tries to reassure you, evidently sensing that you’re growing a bit panicked.

“No, I-” You’re choking on the words. Recent memories are mixing with old, creating a convoluted and murky timeline of events. It’s hard to sort through everything, to find the truths hidden amongst the lies. You’re not sure how long it takes for you to collect your composure and organize your thoughts into a relatively coherent statement. “I saw him. He… visited me in the hospital. He drove me home.”

“What?” Jack asks, utter disbelief written all over his face. You don’t remember your boss very well, but you get the feeling he isn’t usually so expressive. The look on his face would be comical, in a different situation. “What did he say to you?” He implores.

“He said a lot of things… Nothing very important.” You try to recall what you can, but your memories are quickly slipping through your fingertips in granules of sparkling sand. You press a hand to your temple, your headache growing worse as you try to recall what happened. “I tried asking him questions about me, to throw him off, but he knew all the answers.”

Somehow, Jack doesn’t seem surprised by the notion. “You two were… close, before,” your boss evidently settles for saying. There’s a certain suspicion in his voice, as if he suspects you may have been more than “close” with Hannibal. You’re feeling too discombobulated to rise to the bait or bother calling him out on the obvious verbal trap.

“He said ‘goodbye,’” you continue, eyebrows furrowing. Somehow, you get the sense that Hannibal isn’t the type to utter goodbyes. Moreover, a goodbye ushers in a sense of finality, as if you will truly never see him again. You pinch the bridge of your nose, pretending that your exchange with him on your doorstep isn’t replaying in your mind. He kissed me on the cheek, you don’t say to Jack. He said he was my husband. He watched over me in the hospital when no one else did. And it may have been fake, all of it… But that gleam of affection in his eyes didn’t look manufactured—it looked genuine.

Jack looks troubled and somewhat restless. “You’re lucky you made it out alive.” He states. You don’t think you can quite believe his words. For whatever reason, Hannibal Lecter—the Chesapeake Ripper—is interested in you. Whether sick fascination or cloying obsession, you have to face the facts: luck had nothing to do with it. The Ripper kept you alive because, inexplicably, he wants you alive.

And that unnerves you.

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#defectivevillain #hannibal x reader #Hannibal Lecter x reader #hannibal #hannibal nbc #hannibal lecter #Hannibal Lecter x gn reader #hannibal x gn reader #Hannibal Lecter x male reader #Hannibal Lecter x transmasc reader #male reader #transmasc reader #gn reader #ok I think that's enough

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salemwritesstuff · 10 months

Text

lachrymose

part I | part II

pairing: hannibal lecter x gn reader

pronouns: they/them

desc: meeting your new psychiatrist , hannibal lecter

trigger warnings: mentions of attempted sewerslide, mentions of self-destructive behavior/alcoholism/SH

w.c: 1,056

your boot tapped hurriedly against the tile, thumbnail between your teeth as you observed the area you waited in. the walls hung paintings, and the sofa you sat on was made of leather, damask sitting diagonally pillows on either side. on the far left, there was a leather chair and a wooden dresser, old books stacked atop the polished wood. at first, the aura the room produced made you think "old money", but now that you got a good look of your surroundings, you knew the doctor you were about to see had dignity, taste. expensive taste, from the looks of it.

the door opened, and out came a man, standing six feet tall donning a full black suit and maroon button up. you were right about his aura; there in the doorway, he stood tall, dignified, confident.

the corners of his lips pulled up in a small smile, and he moved to the side, arm motioning from you to the room. "come in."

you cleared your throat and stood from your seat, taking careful steps inside. his office bore shelves full of books, few paintings hanging on each wall. in the center was his desk, minimal and organized. in front were two brown leather chairs, about six feet apart from each other. like the waiting room and himself, it was tasteful.

he appeared in front of you. you nearly jumped from his sudden presence. "have a seat." he said, motioning for one of the leather seats. you did, and so did he.

"you're doctor hannibal lecter?" you asked, eyes scanning the room.

"yes." he answered simply. you could feel his eyes on you. he cleared his throat. "let's go over why you're here, shall we." it wasn't a question; it was a statement. you nodded.

"your doctor recommended you to me. would you like to say why?" he inquired. you looked at him, his eyes glued to the file in his lap.

"he says i need a support system." you told him.

"yes, i see that." he stated, looking up at you. "why does he say you need one."

you clicked your tongue, eyes flicking to the file. "is this necessary, doctor lecter."

"yes." he answered. "it is important that we go over the facts."

"you already have the facts. there, in your lap."

he nodded. "i want you to confirm them."

you cleared your throat. "he says i need one because..." you paused, tongue going dry. "because..." you closed your eyes, fingers lacing together. your boot tapped against the floor, and you wished then that it wasn't so hard to say. you'd gone over it in your head multiple times. "i tried to kill myself."

hannibal nodded. "it says here that you have a history of self-destructive behavior. alcoholism, drug use, self harm..." he looked up at you. "would you like to go over why?"

you shook your head, taking a deep breath. you peeled your eyes open, trying your best to look up at him.

"do you have a hard time with eye contact, y/n?" he asked.

"i have a hard time with any contact, honestly." you laughed, throat dry. your eyes meet the tiled floor. "it's hard for me to... be vulnerable like that."

hannibal nodded. his eyes were glued on you. you could feel them, a scratching feeling on your brain.

"tell me about yourself."

"there isn't much to tell."

"i disagree."

you looked up at him. "there isn't. everything about me is in that file of yours."

"everything about your disorder and medical history. nothing about you." he corrected. "what do you enjoy doing in your spare time?"

you shrugged. "i..." you sighed through your nose, looking at your hands. "i used to paint."

"used to?"

"i stopped when my mental health went downhill." you clicked your tongue. "i had no motivation. no muse, either."

"what was your muse?" you looked up at hannibal. then back down.

"she..." your voice shook. the noise of your doctor's pen was loud in your ears. your eyes shut tightly, tears burning them. "...was my mother."

hannibal's writing stilled. he looked up from his journal, eyes laying over you. "what was so special about your mother that made you want to immortalize her?"

you sighed, tongue in cheek. "when i was a child, i'd have bad meltdowns. maybe it was the noise, or textures... i wouldn't let anyone touch me... but, my mom..." you smiled gently. "...she'd get me my favorite stuffed animal, sit a few inches away from me, until i felt safe enough to crawl to her and let her hold me. and when i did, she'd hold me, and she'd hum a melody. sometimes, i'd ask her to sing, and she would." you looked up at him. "it was the medicine to my meltdowns, and was the only thing she could do to get me to go to sleep."

you looked back down at your hands. "that's the only good memory i have with her."

hannibal's eyes were still glued to you. "what makes that the only good memory?"

"because... every other memory i have with her... include her drinking, or yelling, or beating."

"beating who?" he asked. you looked up at him, and you finally let tears roll down your cheeks.

"me."

hannibal set his journal and the file aside. he watched as you cried, until you could barely think, and you found it hard to breathe. he got up, taking short strides until he stood in front of you. kneeling down, he reached for his handkerchief, pulling it from his suit jacket pocket and pressing its silk against your cheek.

you looked up at him through your lashes, watching as he dried your tears. his eyes meet yours, and the corners of his lips tug upwards subtly.

your eyes don't leave him as he stood and made way for his seat. it was quiet as he folded the fabric and slid it back into place in his suit jacket.

"you are my sunshine."

hannibal looked at you. "is that the song she sang to you?"

you nodded. "it was." you looked at the paintings hung up on the walls.

"why did you try to take your life, y/n?" he inquired. you looked back at him. giving him a sad smile, you answered,

"i wanted to join her."

———

a/n: i hope you enjoyed !! send me any requests/commissions you might have !!

#mads mikkelsen hannibal #hannibal nbc #nbc hannibal #hannibal lecter #hannibal #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal lecter x male reader #hannibal lecter fic #hannibal fanfic #hannibal fanfiction #hannibal x male reader #hannibal x reader #angst #hannibal lecter angst

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madisonwritesstuff · 8 months

Note

hi there!! could i request hannibal with a patient! reader who suffers from dermatillomania?

★ ; dermatillomania. -------------------

Hannibal Lecter x Patient! Reader.

im devoted so I spent like a solid 10 minutes researching about dermatillomania 😭 hope u enjoy !!

Tags ; reader has dermatillomania (obviously), no specified gender of reader, headcanons :33 hanni has a crush on reader..

When you first came to his office he was surprised by the scabs on your lips and face. You felt embarrassed and nervous but he assured you that you had no reason to.

You'd had been to a few psychiatrists but none of them had helped you with your disorder. So Hannibal was your last hope.

After a few sessions you had noticed a change in your habits, you started picking on your skin less and the previous wounds had started to heal.

In those months you had really gotten to know Hannibal, and you were happy he even talked about himself even if it was just a teensy bit of information.

You overshared practically every inch of your life, and he didn't judge you one bit and you actually felt a lot better getting all that stuff off your chest.

And no matter what he never judged you for anything, you felt like you could really be yourself around him.

Needless to say you were insecure of the marks they left behind, but Hannibal assured you the marks did not mess with how beautiful you appear to him the world.

When you denied him and told him you still feel ugly, he invited you to his dinner party and even bought you an outfit of your favorite color just to prove to you how beautiful you can be.

Now he mentioned a couple times how he refrains from getting to know his patients outside the office, so you felt a little giddy knowing that he still invited you to his dinner party.

At the dinner party, you were getting many compliments from the people around you, which definitely boosted your confidence.

That was until an snobby woman pointed out your scars, calling you “A disgrace to mankind's image.” You felt the stares around you and the whispers people made.

You began tearing up as the woman kept making jabs about your appearance.

“I'm afraid I'm gonna have to ask you to leave, Miss Constantine.” You heard Hannibal's voice from behind you as his hand wrapped around your waist. “Excuse me? You're defending that pig? And I thought you were better than that, Hannibal.” She spoke and crossed her arms.

“Miss Constantine I request you to leave my establishment before I make you.” He spoke, and even though you didn't look back at him the discomfort on the woman's face let you know he definitely intimidating her.

After the woman left, Hannibal made sure you were alright and even took you aside to a secluded place to comfort you .

“Do you think I'm ugly?” You asked him in a whisper. “You're the most beautiful person I've seen in a long time.” He gently spoke and cupped your face, smiling softly. “Don't ever doubt yourself, Y/N.” He assured you before planting a kiss on your forehead, and hugging you whilst putting your head against his chest.

#hannibal nbc #nbc hannibal #hannibal #hannibal lecter x fem reader #hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x y/n #hannibal lecter x reader #hannibal lecter x male reader #hannibal lecter x patient! reader #hannibal lecter x patient reader #dermatillomania #headcanons #hannibal lecter headcanons #headcannons #fem reader #female reader #male reader #patient reader

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alina-dixon · 1 year

Text

Open doors never mean a good thing

Pairing: Hannibal x Male reader x Will

TW: near death, blood, violence, killing, angst, fluff.

Requested: Yes / No

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It was late, your husbands Hannibal and Will were just done with a new case and ready to head home to you. Both sitting in the Car and about to pull into the driveway. “Do you think he would be happy if we went to an amusement park with him?” Will asked glancing over at Hannibal who drove the car.

Will and Hannibal had planned to go to an amusement park with you tomorrow, and they wanted to tell you at today's dinner, as a little surprise.

Hannibal looked over at Will for a moment and back to the street, smiling. “I'm sure he would love it, you know how childish he can be. He would probably enjoy it more than most of the people that went there.” Will laughed at that, nodding in agreement. “Yeah, probably!”.

Some time went by and they finally pulled into the driveway, getting out of the car, they felt like something was off... And they were right. The moment when they walked to the door they noticed that it was open. This alarmed the both of them and Will pulled his weapon out.

“O-Open doors never mean a good thing” mumbled Will, looking at Hannibal who was also ready to kill if he needed to. They made their way slowly into the house when they heard a noise coming from the living room.

When They got there, they stood on the side of the doorframe, looking inside their eyes widened with horror. There were two men with bloodied clothes in the room, standing right in front of their blood stained and beaten up Husband who was hanging from the ceiling, gasping and panting while struggling against the ropes that were strangling him, trying to stay alive.

Instantly both of them run into the room, Hannibal with a knife and Will with his gun raised. Both men turned around at the sound of the steps only to be greeted with an angry Hannibal and an even so angry Will. Will shot the first man into his arm, while Hannibal was trying to stab the other one with his knife, which leads him to lose it and to fight the man with bare hands.

So when Will shot the male in his head he ran towards Hannibal and the other male he instantly shot him, when the man fell they rushed to their still struggling Husband who was about to turn blue from the lack of air. “Hold on Y/N! Hannibal get the knife!” Will screamed on the verge of tears.

While Hannibal rushed to get the knife from the floor Will had put his arms around your legs and held you up, so you won't strangle to death. Hannibal rushed back with a chair and the knife. He stepped onto the chair cutting you loose, now completely falling into Will’s arms.

Will slowly put you onto the floor “Please Y/N! You have to hold on!” now fully on crying as he saw how bloody and beaten up you were, you also had stab wounds and cuts all over your body, and your face was swollen and you had a black eye, your flannel shirt torn, and your jeans were ripped. Hannibal also had tears rolling down his face as he kneeled next to you “We’re here dear, it's going to be okay” he whispered while caressing your face with his right hand. Your breath was uneven and your eyes were almost closed.

Will stood up, pulling his phone out of his jacket, struggling to call Jack. When Jack picked up he only could hear someone crying on the other side “Will? Will!? What's going on? What happened!?” Jack was getting worried when Will didn't respond for a minute. “J-Jack! W-We need y-y-you a-and an A-Ambulance! Y-Y/N got attacked. One I-of the attacker's s-still lives.” Will trambled over his own words almost choking.

This alarmed Jack “Shit! We will be on our way, hold on!” Running could be heard on Jack’s side. “Hurry the Fuck up we've got somewhere to be, we’ll need an ambulance too!” more running could be heard. “We will be there shortly!” and with that Jack hung up.

Will’s hands were trembling as he puts his phone away, and walked back to Your side, he kneeled down and held onto your arm with one hand, and with the other one he held Hannibal’s arm. “Why-why is this happening!? Why him!?” Will cried looking at Hannibal. “I don't know, but Jack has to find out why!” Hannibal’s voice was angry, which is normal when your Husband was about to be murdered by some assholes. Hannibal kissed the top of Will’s head.

Suddenly footsteps could be heard from outside same as the shouting from Jack. Jack, four FBI agents, and three medics came rushing inside. When Jack saw Y/N on the floor his eyes widened “Shit! Hurry up and get him to the hospital!” Jack screamed, as the medics pushed Hannibal and Will off of you.

When jack looked at the FBI agents, they already had the man who was still alive handcuffed. “Get him out! And send the others in to get the corpse!” Jack turned to Hannibal and Will “What happened?” he asked trying to calm himself down. “We d-don’t know. W-When we drove h-here the door was open. A-And when we came i-in these men w-were standing in front o-of him, a-and he was hanging from the ceiling.” Will hugged Hannibal, eyes red and puffy as he cried into his shoulder. Both of them were still in shock.

Hannibal’s eyes were red too “Either way you find out why they did this, or we will” Hannibal was serious and that is for sure. Jack sighed and nodded his head, knowing that Hannibal was serious “We will inform you about everything we get.” when Jack said that he saw the medics getting Y/N out of the house. Jack, Will, and Hannibal followed suit.

“Will, you should drive with Y/N. I’ll drive after you.” Hannibal said as he got Will into the ambulance. Will nodded shakily, sitting down.

So when the doors of the ambulance closed shut it immediately drove off, sirens on. Hannibal got into his car and speed off after the ambulance.

Jack sighed, anger could be seen on his face, as he was in for a long night.

Will’s mind was racing, he was scared for your life. One of the medics put a mask on your face so that you could breathe normally again, as the other one gave you something for the pain.

The drive took about 10 minutes as the ambulance arrived at the hospital. The doors of the ambulance shot open as they rushed you inside the doctors immediately started rushing you into the Op, Will and Hannibal right beside you. “You have to hold on Y/N!” Will cried out, holding onto your hand.

When they were bursting through to doors to the Op a doctor stops them. “I'm sorry but you will have to wait outside, but if you want to sit down there are seats right there” the doctor pointed to a bunch of seats not too far from the Op entrance. Hannibal nodded and grabbed Will’s arms slowly walking to the seats to sit down.

Will was trambling in Hannibal’s arms, he strokes Will’s hair to comfort him. “I hope he makes it” Will sobbed. “I'm sure he will make it, he has one of the strongest wills that exists,” Hannibal said soothingly. Normally Hannibal wasn't a person who is afraid of anything really, but when it came to you and Will, it was something else. And it scared him, the thought that he could lose you right now was scaring him shitless.

After what seemed to be 3 hours a nurse came out, making both of them stand up as the nurse walked towards them. “How is he!?” Will immediately asked the nurse. “He is stable, we will put him onto the intensive care unit. They are already on their way there, but it will take him probably another hour to wake up. I will take you to him, so if you would like to follow me.” she said, Hannibal and Will nodded. “Of course,” Hannibal said as they to followed the nurse.

“He will have to stay a weak and a half or so, because he also had a few broken ribs and a sprained ankle,” she said calmly as they stopped in front of a door. “Were here” she simply said as she knocked lightly at the door before opening it.

When they stepped inside there was another nurse that was putting a bag with some liquid onto the hook, it was for the pain. so you won't be in pain when you woke up.

It was a heartbreaking sight for both of them when they saw all those bandages around you. “The doctor will come in an hour to see if he’s awake.” and with that, both nurses left the room.

They walked towards you, and sat to your right. They both sat down and both of them took your hand into their own.

After a while you suddenly gripped their hand tight, making both of them shoot right up. When they looked at you they saw you smiling at them which calmed them down. “Hey, love” was what Hannibal said “hey, sweetheart” Will whispered, making you smile even wider. “Hey~” you whispered back as you began to sat up a little more straight which Hannibal helped you with.

“How are you feeling, love?” Hannibal asked stroking your hair. “I'm feeling good actually. And you? You both must have been worried.” you asked back arching a brow making both of them chuckle. “We're fine now that we know that you're good.” Hannibal awnsered “Yeah, more than happy.” Will nodded his head. Suddenly there was a knock on the door and it opened. The Doctor walked in and started smiling. “I see your awake, how are you feeling Mr. Lecter/Graham?” he asked stopping in front of the bed.

You smiled back at the doctor. “I'm feeling good, thank you!” the doctor laughed a little. “That's good! You will be able to leave within five days, because of your healing. Your healing seems to be extremely faster than anyone else, which is extremely good for you, so you won't be staying too long here.” the doctor exclaimed. You nodded your head and thanked him as he left again.

These five days went by quickly, The guy that was still alive was put to jail for the rest of his life. And you were going home today, but you still couldn't walk so they had to get a wheelchair for you, till your ankle is fully healed just like your ribs. “Alright, your good to go the papers are all taken care of. Take care Mr. Lecter/Graham. And a good day you three.” the doctor said as he left.

“Alright let's get you into the wheelchair, sweetheart.” Will said. “yeah.” you nodded. Hannibal had placed the wheelchair next to your bed holding it as Will was helping you. “Lift your arms for me please, sweetheart.” he asked, and you happily obliged to that making him and Hanninal chuckle. So he put one arm around your back and put the other under your legs, making you put your arms around his neck. He carefully lifted you and carefully put you into the wheelchair.

“Alright, let’s go.” Hannibal said as you made your way out of the hospital. When you reached the car you spoke up. “Can we go eat something? I'm hungry!” You asked looking at them with big eyes, making them chuckle, Hannibal nodded. “Of course we can, love. Where do you want to go?” he asked. You closed your eyes pretending to think of something even if you already knew where you wanted to go. “To (favorite Restaurant)!” you exclaimed opening your eyes and grinning at them. Both of them laugh at your childlike behavior. “(favorite Restaurant) it is then!” Will said as he opened the back door of the car and lifted you out of the Wheelchair and sat you inside, while Hannibal put the Wheelchair in the trunk.

Will buckled you up and kissed you on your lips and so did Hannibal before closing the door to get in. Hannibal got into the driver's seat and Will into the passenger seat. “I love you” you said lovingly. “We love you too” they both said and with that, they drove off to the restaurant.

#hannibal x male reader #will x male reader #will graham #hannibal lecter #hanninal #gay #male reader #male x male #male x male reader #x male reader #lgbtq #x male y/n #will graham x male reader #hannibal lecter x male reader

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bumblesimagines · 1 year

Note

❛ you should smile more. you have such a beautiful smile. ❜

❛ i'm only doing this because you asked me to. ❜

- Hannibal Lecter

❛ i'm only doing this because you asked me to. ❜

❛ you should smile more. you have such a beautiful smile. ❜

Pronouns for y/n: he/him/his

"I don't typically invite patients over but I've decided to make an exception for you." Dr. Lecter said as he led you through his house. To be frank, it felt unusual to see him with his sleeves rolled up and the top buttons of his shirt undone. He had always kept a pristine and proper look about him back in the office.

"You live here all by yourself?" You asked upon entering the absurdly large kitchen. Dr. Lecter stepped toward the island with ingredient lied out, motioning with his hand for you to get closer.

Answering your question with a nod, he pulled a cutting board closer to himself. "Do you like it?"

"Do you?" You swept your gaze over ingredients, turning toward him when he didn't respond. He stared at you, eyes almost studying yours before his lip quirked upward and he wordlessly nodded. "Then that's all that matters."

"Are you aware you often deflect questions about yourself?"

"Do I?" You tilted your head and listened to the amused exhale he released. Chuckling softly, you shrugged your shoulders. "I don't know why I do it. Guess that's why I see you."

"You should smile more. You have such a beautiful smile." He complimented softly, reaching for some vegetables and beginning to cut them into small pieces. You felt your skin flush lightly and hummed, watching him work.

"Would you like to give it a try?" He asked, taking a step back and motioning toward the board. You took his spot, wrapping your fingers over handle of the knife. You stared at it for a moment, catching your reflection in the wet blade.

"(Y/N)?"

Blinking out of it, you cleared your throat and grabbed a new vegetable, hesitantly hovering the knife over it. Dr. Lecter chuckled behind you and moved, pressing his chest to your back and placing his hands over yours.

"You've never cut vegetables before?"

"I wouldn't say I'm the best cook. I'm only doing this because you asked me to."

"Then I'll teach you."

#x reader #x you #x y/n #x male reader #hannibal lector x reader #hannibal x you #hannibal x male reader #hannibal x reader #hannibal #hannibal show #hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x male reader #hannibal lecter x you

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andynatomy-7 · 1 year

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Hannibal NBC as pictures jn my camera roll

Hannibal Lecter

Will Graham

Alana Bloom

Jack Crawford

Yes ik its onky four people and yes ik they all have the same watermark 😞

#nbc hannibal #hannibal lecter x male reader #hannibal x male reader #nbc

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vampiiu · 2 years

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Hannibal x S/O Who had a Nightmare

What to expect: GN! Reader, mention of nightmares and trauma, very short one-shot

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You had never shared a bed with Hannibal until now. He respects your privacy, so he allows you to sleep in a separate room. However, tonight you were anxious from a nightmare.

Reader creeps into Hannibal's room only to find him still awake and reading a book. What are you doing out of bed, mielasis?” he asks as he places his glasses on his nightstand.

"I couldn't sleep," you say as you climb in bed beside him. You lay your head on his chest and speak barely above a whisper, "I was... Having a nightmare."

"Yes, everyone has nightmares," he says. "Even I still have them from time to time."

"You do?"

He takes a breath and looks at you.

"Bad dreams often stem from trauma, for example what happened to my parents."

"Oh.. I'm sorry."

"No need to be sorry, all's done now. Would you like to tell me what your nightmare was about?"

You shook your head. You'd never want to burden Hannibal with your stupid 'bad dreams'... You aren't a kid.

He seems to have read your mind as he reassures you.

"Y/N, you're never a bother. You never will be. You're aware of this, correct?"

He looks past your eyes and into your soul, now it's time for you to reassure him.

"Of course." You respond as tears swell up in your eyes again.

The faint smell of wildflower fills your nose as he positions his arm over your shoulders.

His warmth comforts you and you both, almost immediately, drift off to sleep.

sorry the format is so weird. i'm on a different device and this was kinda rushed 😭

#i havent written in forever #sorry if it sucked <3 #nbc hannibal #sotl hannibal #silence of the lambs #hannibal #hannibal lecter #hannibal lecter x reader #sotl hannibal x reader #nbc hannibal x reader #hannibal lecter x male reader #hannibal lecter x gn reader #gender neutral

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issdisgrace · 9 months

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Y/n: Hey Will, oh hey Hannibal. I’m gonna go make girl dinner you want some.

Will: That’s sounds good also can I get a coke with it.

Y/n: I can do that.

Hannibal: What is girl dinner.

Y/n: It’s a plate full of snacks that is but isn’t a meal.

Hannibal: That doesn’t sound well balanced or very filling. I can bring you guys dinner they would surely be better for you then your guys girl dinner.

Y/n: Don’t sweat it Hannibal we are fine with our girl dinners.

Hannibal: Mmm

NEXT DAY

Hannibal: I made you guys dinner hope you enjoy.

Will: You didn’t have to do this Hannibal.

Y/n: Will is right you really didn’t have to.

Hannibal: It was no problem. I enjoyed it, it’s not often I make simple meals but my taste is far different from yours. So I hope both enjoy the food.

#hannibal lecter #will graham #nbc hannibal #hannibal lecter x male reader #hannibal lecter x reader #will graham x male reader #will graham x reader #hannibal lecter x will graham #hannibal lector x will graham x male reader #hannibal lector x will graham x reader #ryans incorrect quotes

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defectivevillain · 5 months

Text

tongues and teeth

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

reader's pronouns & race: unspecified, ambiguous

summary:

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

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

word count: 6k | ao3 version

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, Chef-” Franklyn sputters.

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

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

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

“How is it?” Lecter questions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Stay,” Chef Lecter insists.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y’all, I did A LOT of research for this fic… so pls lmk if u enjoyed reading it !!!! <3

TAGLIST (hoped y'all don't mind I'm tagging you in this, but I figured you'd like another Hannibal piece): @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer @gayschlatt69

#defectivevillain #x reader #reader insert #male reader #gn reader #hannibal x reader #hannibal x male reader #hannibal x gn reader #hannibal nbc #Hannibal Lecter x reader #Hannibal Lecter x gn reader #Hannibal Lecter x male reader #the menu #the menu fic #fanfic #sorry for all the tags lmao

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