TXT Boyfriend Headcannons

Truly inspirational words.

It's Hot To Punch a Blonde Guy in A Bar

Tyler Durden X Reader

⚠️ Warnings: Swearing, sexual innuendos, light nsfw, blood, use of drugs, reader is put in an uncomfortable position ⚠️

"Tyler?" You called from across the bar, wondering where on earth he went. He had ordered something and left you there to make it for him, walking away from it entirely so he could continue with whatever else was occupying him. With the cold drink in your hand, you glanced over both shoulders and wondered if maybe he ended up in the basement again. Where Tyler Durden was in Lou's Tavern was always a mystery. However; as you moved to set the drink back down, a familiar voice appeared from your left.

"Thanks." With this simple short and curt response, he took the glass from the bar and sat down haphazardly on the leather upholstered stools. Dark maroon jacket and contrasting bright blue shirt with palm trees, Tyler was really a sight to behold as he removed the large red frames from his face and put out his cigarette on the counter. You had told him numerous times to just take it outside, but he was Tyler Durden and if he wanted to do something, he did it.

Brushing away a couple strands of hair from the sides of your cheeks, you tried to force a smile on your face as you went to clean up the cigarette ash. He never made your job easy. Always leaving cigarette ash on the counter and a fight in his wake, you've just learned not to argue with him and go about your job.

Picking up another glass from the back, you move to serve the man directly to his right. This stranger had bright blonde hair- too bright- and a set of blue eyes to match. With an ugly black eye and fresh blood atop his lips, he went to grab your wrist to keep you there after you had handed him his order. This wasn't entirely out of the usual, this bar was dingy and gross and full of men who were even more disgusting. You considered it a good week when you didn't get sexualized for just breathing.

"Take your hand off me." You said in a firm but polite tone. If he tried anything stupid, you would kick him into next week.

Sighing, he moved the beer slightly away from him as he stared you up and down, taking in the sight before him and reveling in it. He seemed to like the fact that you were visibly uncomfortable and so he continued with his antics.

"Relax, Girlie. What do you say we get out of here?" He smiled and you could see that he was missing about four teeth.

"I have a better idea. Fuck off before I stab you in the face." He removed his grip from you and held up his hands in defeat.

"Woaahhhhh girlie is fiesty-"

Sometime between when he first opened his mouth and his lame gesture, you popped him right in the jaw, sending him tumbling backwards off his stool and onto the ground. There was a commotion now, the men at the bar looking at the blonde bitch as he held his face in his hands. All except for Tyler Durden, who stared directly at you with a half smile. He wouldn't admit it to himself right away but that was sexy as hell. Or, at least he thought so.

"You cunt." This kid spat out the name at you before trying to get up and steady himself against the counter. When his face came into view, you could see that his jaw was dislocated and blood was pouring out down the side of his mouth. You mentally high-fived yourself for breaking his face.

"Aww, want girlie to get you a band-aid?" You said in a mocking tone. This kid really pissed you off.

"Well I ought to-" he jumps up over the counter and reaches straight for your throat as you dodge away in the nick of time. The blonde boy throws himself into the cabinet of glasses and breaks a few of the ones in the very front. You steady yourself for a fight but you feel a hand on your shoulder and smell the familiar aroma of homemade soap and rust. Tyler held you back with a smile.

"I can take care of this one from here, thanks for warming him up for me."

Tyler crouched down to the man's level and held his face up by his ugly ass hair. The man now sported a couple fresh cuts, none of which were too serious except for the one above his eyebrow. That would need stitches.

"I'll have you know that you tried to hit my girl, Angel Face." Tyler stated as he banged the stranger's head against the floor once again and knocked a couple of teeth out. "This girl right here isn't in fucking Fight Club you sadistic fuck." Once again the stranger loses a couple more teeth.

Pound after pound and slap after slap, Tyler has to stop himself before things became too messy. Floor tiles were starting to pop up, for Christs sake. Blood ran through the lines in-between the tiles creating pretty red patterns in contrast against the green of the room. The man that Tyler referred to as Angel Face now had two black eyes and a deep gash by his forehead. Glass stuck out from spots in his hands as be gasped for air, blood bubbling up in his throat and involuntarily being spat out.

"Hey, let's get out of here before some human butt wipe decides to call the authorities." Lighting another cigarette, your boyfriend had the largest grin on his face. Even with the specks of the stranger's blood, you thought he looked hot as hell.

"Sounds like a plan." You said, and grabbed your purse from behind the bar. "Irvine, I'm clocking out early!"

With an arm around your waist, Tyler escorted you off the premises and towards the familiar house on Paper Street; puddles lined up against the sidewalk and broken bottles littering the grass. Thankfully the walk from Lou's wasn't too far and in no time, you found yourself within the confines of the wooden house with the horribly printed wallpaper. Kicking off your shoes and leaving them in the walkway to mess with Tyler, you go to grab the coffee cup printed robe that he wore so often from the back of the couch in the living room. It was getting colder as the seasons changed and you knew that it would be another difficult year of not being able to afford heat.

"So... About this Fight Club you mentioned earlier...?" You started, trying to make conversation. You had briefly heard whispers of the other guys talking about some club that took place in the basement of where you worked, but whenever you had asked, the men stated that they were sworn to secrecy.

"First rule, babe. Can't talk about it." You heard his voice from the kitchen along with the clattering of pots and pans. It was 12:17am, why the fuck was he making soap this early?

"Not even with me?" You walked into the kitchen and leant against the island in the middle of the room; surrounded by haphazardly placed cupboards and exposed wires from the ceiling. There was the smell of vinegar in the air and the stove kicked on, emitting a slight amount of heat on Tyler's side of the room.

"Nope. Although I might be inclined to share a few details about my daily habits if you let me have my robe back." He said with his back to you, busying himself with mixing the soap around with a spoon.

"What if you tell me everything instead? I deserve to know, I think." You said, lighting a cigarette from one of the boxes on the table.

"That's hardly a deal."

"I'll give you your robe back."

"It's mine anyways."

"I'll let you fuck me again."

Tyler put down the spoon and seriously contemplated your offer. His hair was sticking up in every direction and he still had yet to wipe the blood off his face from the catastrophe earlier.

"Before you go to work tomorrow?" He asked, raising his eyebrows in a ridiculous suggestive manner.

"Yes. Scout's honor."

Tyler turned the stove off and placed the contents of the bowl in the fridge. You never dared to open that fridge since you were sure you would find body parts or blood bags or some other weird shit in there. That's how you and Tyler thrived. He did murderous shit, you didn't pry. He gave you love and cared about you, you stayed out of his business.

Turning around, he places both his arms on the island directly across from you. His jacket had been cast aside so his short sleeved T-shirt allowed for a great view of the veins in his arms and hands. Sweat beaded slightly on his forehead and he licked his lips in anticipation.

"Fight Club. It's a place where the real heroes of society earn their praise for their dedication to life and the downfall of capitalism," he smirks and rubs your hand on the counter, "No girls allowed."

"Why not? I'm sure I could kick your ass. You saw me beat up that douchebag today." You said, with a glare directed towards Tyler's comment.

"See, there's a difference. Most of the guys get pleasure out of fighting each other because it lets loose some of their anger. For me, if you were to kick my ass that is, I would find it pleasurable purely because you're sexy and I love you."

You sighed with a slight smile to let him know you weren't angry. "You're impossible."

"Impossibly handsome?"

"Go back to making soap or some shit," you joked.

"I have a better idea." He scooped you up into his arms and pressed you against the wall, locking you in between his body and the structure of the house. He gave you one last look in the eyes before he went to work on kissing you softly at first, and then getting more and more rough and sloppy. Fingers intertwined in his hair, you kissed him back feverishly.

His hand then went to make a move against the side of your thigh, tapping alongside it with his fingers in a drumming motion as he continued to kiss you with an intense passion. You thought it was cute and waited for him to change his directory towards something more R rated and leave the PG-13 in the dust. Just as you had silently hoped, his hand moved up to the hem of your shirt, slowly rubbing circles on your side and making his way up slowly. Tyler liked to take his time with these things, you noticed. It was because of some poetic thingy probably; about how the world was caving in and we're all dying but we can take things slow sometimes and enjoy the moment.

"I thought you wanted it before I had to leave for work?" You asked with a knowing tone. Your boyfriend was such a wimp about these things.

"We can always stay up all night...." He stated in between kisses. He pulled away for a moment to look at you and your current position against the wall, taking in the sight before him. He didn't see a lot of beauty in the world, but you definitely held the most of it.

"We can't do that, remember what happened last time?"

Tyler stopped his motions and thought back to the time he had gotten a little too crazy from the exhaustion and the sex that he threw the furniture from one of the upstairs bedrooms out the window to make room for some of the weird shit he wanted to try. The desk drawers and the chairs as well as all the old magazines were still outside on the ground, spewed about in disfunctional chaos outside the second story window.

"Fine, then I'll wait until tomorrow." He said, taking the robe from you and slipping it on, walking upstairs.

"You bitch, Tyler! You set me up!" You said with a laugh and followed him up the stairs. The smell of soap slowly leaving you as you got closer and closer to Tyler's room at the top of the stairs.

"Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. Are you gonna stay awake now?" He grinned and pulled you in close to him, opening the door with the heel of his foot and stumbling into the room with you in his arms as he made his way towards the bed. The door shut behind you and as the heavy wood made impact with the frame, a crack ran up the wall. Before you had time to register how much that would cost to get fixed, Tyler reached out and grabbed you from behind, pinning you onto the bed and leaning over you with the wildest grin on his face.

"Alright, Mr. Durden," you said as you twisted around and caught him by surprise, "I can stay up for a while." You caught his ankles and turned the two of you around so that he was now the one underneath and you were on top, straddling his waist. He took off the infamous coffee robe and threw it over the edge of the bed and watched as it hit the floor, lying back down again. His shirt was rising up, exposing the toned abdomen he had underneath, and his beautiful pale skin. His breath hitched as he watched you reach to remove the garment from his torso and then up above his chest and shoulders, removing it entirely from his frame. Your eyes practically drank in the image of him lying there shirtless and gorgeous as ever. The scars that littered his body glimmered under the soft glow of the candles used to light the house after dark (courtesy of no one ever paying the electrical bills). Your fingers went to trace over some of them, Tyler watching you with complete and utter admiration as you became lost in thought.

"Hey, everything okay?" He asked, watching how quickly your mood changed.

You smiled. "Everything is perfect, you're perfect."

Any anxiousness of his went away with your confirmation of his appearance.

"My scars?" He asked.

"Especially your scars. You're beautiful, Tyler."

This last sentence barely left your mouth before Tyler was lost in your kiss again, this time with more love than lust like before.

"Well," he said, "I don't want to die without any scars."

"Mission accomplished." You giggled and drew him in once more.

💛🦐

(A/N: I thought this concept of beating Jared Leto's character up and having Tyler think it was cute was something I desperately needed to write into a fanfiction. That was all it was going to be originally, until I read a Cliff Booth fic by @darling-i-read-it and fell in love with their writing towards Cliff's scars. The reader takes her time to go over each one in their story; making sure he feels loved and handsome as she talks about his past. I wanted to do something similar with the reader in my story as the reader is very in love with Tyler Durden. Thank you for inspiring my writing! You're truly one of my favorite creators on this app!!)

You can read their fanfiction here.

😈😈😈😈😈😈😈

NCT

Johnny Seo:

The Sun: You felt a certain connection when it came to Johnny Seo that you didn't feel with anyone else. After a night at Mark's place, he decides to take you hiking. What chaos will ensue on your "nature hike?"

(Romance/Fluff/Chaos)

Headcannon #1: Cute things you and Johnny do!!! Just a little drabble because I love me some Johnny Suh ( ˘ ³˘)♥

(Romance/Fluff)

Yuta Nakamoto:

Fight Club: (Part One) Based off the 1999 film Fight Club; Yuta is trying his hardest to fit in amongst the guys within the club and slowly starts to realize what type of person Johnny is. He'd always fought for fun, but Yuta is beginning to think he'll have to fight for you.

Fight Club: (Part Two)

(Romance/NSFW/Angst)

Hendery:

Coffee?: Just a short imagine featuring a very loveable Hendery and a very loveable reader! Coffee definitely does start conversation!

yeonjun ✙ mama 2021 ‘opening performance’ intro

💛💛💛💛💛💛💛

Just the Three of Us

Steve Harrington x Reader x Eddie Munson

Fandom: Stranger Things

AU: Soulmate

Summary: After crashlanding in the mystical magical world of the 1980s, you discover that you have not one, but two soulmates and they are determined to take the best care of you they possibly can.

Note: Takes place sometime after Season 4 I guess?? Everyone lives and is happy (even though we don’t have those answers yet lmao). Also, yes another Soulmate AU. So sorry, but I am trash. Consider this my apology for discontinuing Stranded lol.

Warnings: poly fluff, swearing

Word Count: 3.2k

Reader Is: Female

Holy fuck, did your head hurt. Your ears were ringing really loudly and everything was black. Add to the list your limbs felt like they were full of sand and you were not having a good time. After a long moment, the ringing began to subside enough to make out some (unfamiliar) voices, who seemed to be bickering above you somewhere.

“She needs to go to a hospital. Like, now.” One of the voices argued. “Look at her.”

“And tell them what, Steve, that she fell from the sky?” Another voice, this one younger, replied.

“I don’t know, man, I think Harrington’s right. She doesn’t look so good.” A third voice, this one a bit deeper than either of the others, said. “Add to that the fact that she fell from the fucking sky.”

You tried your best to lift your eyelids, but everything was so heavy. Too heavy to move.

Keep reading

Heyo fellow Panko Shrimps!

I've been in somewhat of a slump lately and I haven't been doing the best mentally. As of late, my days have consisted of naps, serial killer documentaries, and college.

This leads me to my request: would anyone mind tagging me or sending me some fanfiction that they've enjoyed? It can be anyone or anything, but seeing some of the things you guys are interested in might help me with my own writing! I also need a tad bit more happiness in the upcoming days so this would be a serious motivator.

You guys mean the absolute world to me and I hope you're having the bestest day/night wherever you are. Keep being beautiful and handsome and attractive and wonderful humans.

As Jimin likes to say: "You're so lovely, I'm so lovely, we're all so lovely."

💛🦐

Stranger Things boys and when they fell for you.

AN: Did I make this just because I wanted to post a picture of Steve in his yellow shirt that I love so much? Yes, that's exactly what I did.

Steve Harrington

It had been another day working with you and Robin at the video store that was like every other: you would finish shelving the vhs tapes, Robin would work the cash register, and Steve would do anything else (and flirt with the lady customers)

You had just finished putting away the new movie "The Breakfast Club," when all of a sudden Steve had grabbed your wrist and turned you to face him.

Wild eyed with red cheeks, Harrington was truly a sight to be seen as he frantically searched around in his pants pocket, for what you didn't know.

"What's wrong, Steve?" You asked, noticing his manic state.

"Does my hair look okay?" He asks, patting down the sides of his head and then deciding to ruffle it back up again. His eyes kept darting to the back of the store towards the romance movies and that's when you saw her: Laura. Guys fawned over her all the time and were desperate for her attention, I guess it didn't surprise you that Steve felt the same.

Fixing his parting by running your fingers through his hair, Steve had a starting realization.

He was horribly infatuated with this.

Laura suddenly became a topic of the past as he watched you work his hair into the right shape, stepping back and eyeing your work.

"It looks good now, go get her!" You encouraged and went back to finishing your task.

Needless to say, Steve walked back to the front counter and confided in Robin about how this was the beginning of something between the two of you.

Billy Hargrove

Billy wasn't the most in tune with his emotions and how he felt about you, but he knew that there was something in him that wanted to be around you all the time and that searched desperately for your approval.

Sitting in his car on the way to school, he had offered to drive you just like everyday and Bon Jovi played on the speakers, also as usual.

You had been intently staring out the window watching the town of Hawkins pass as the two of you made your way to the school; fingers drumming against your notebook that you had brought from home.

"Are those the math notes from yesterday?" He asks you, voice gruff but still soothing. You were the only person he treated with such respect and there was something about that exclusivity that made you fall for him even harder. You just wish it was mutual.

"Uh yeah, they are." You said, shifting in your seat. They most definitely were not the math notes but rather your diary which included all about how you felt towards your friend. You were bringing it to school to photocopy some of the drawings you had doodled in the back of it.

"May I borrow them? I'm totally failing Mrs. Hampton's class." He threw out a smile and held out one of his hands to collect the book in question, the other hand on the steering wheel.

"You should be looking at the road silly. But yes, you can borrow them." You said, handing over the book. You were terrified to say the least, but this might be your only chance of properly communicating how you felt.

"Thanks." He said and put the book under his thigh as the ride continued. Once you approached the school, you got out of the car and smiled at Billy. "Love ya." You said, a normal phrase among the two of you.

"Love ya too." He says, immediately starting to go back to the gruff and tough Billy that the rest of Hawkins High was used to. It was cute.

Once you had gone, Billy remembered that he conveniently had a math test on this specific Tuesday morning, so he decides to open your notebook and study as he walked down the hall.

Let's just say, he was glad to know that you felt the same way as him; pining after you for so long, it was nice for him to find out that getting you to be his would be easier than he thought.

Eddie Munson

You had met him at an odd store of sorts, one that specialized in board games and such. You had collected a Ouija board for your own pleasure later and that's when you noticed a giant mass of fluffy hair stationed below the counter looking through the Dungeons and Dragons dice.

"Hey," you said, startling the man on the floor, "Is this where I'm supposed to pay?"

Jumping up from the counter with his shirt acting as a bowl full of ten and twelve sided dice of all different colors, the man was just slightly taller than you with a bagel in his mouth. Dropping the dice onto the counter, he took the bagel out and smiled. "Yes! That's what I work here for!"

Giggling, you set the board down on the counter and watch the mysterious guy ring you up. "You're buying a Ouija board to play with friends?" He asks, trying to start conversation. He might've thought he was being discreet about it, but the pink blush dusting his cheeks gave him away.

"Not really, I was gonna play by myself since everyone was busy." You said, smiling at him.

He would've gotten down on one knee and popped the question right there with that response.

"That's so badass." He said, rubbing the bagel seeds onto his white shirt labeled "The Hellfire Club."

"Why thank you. You know, if you're not busy you could join me sometime. I have a couple of beers at my place." You state with a matter-of-fact tone.

"Underage drinking? Totally in." He says, giving you the heart eyes and handing you your receipt.

"Great. When do you get off of work?"

"9:00" he sighs, looking at the clock which read 5:00pm. Looked like he wasn't getting to spend time with you soon.

"What if we just pop it open and play in here?" You offer, throwing your purse on the counter and hopping over it, taking a bite of his bagel.

Eddie Munson asked you out that very day.

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. 

hannibal taglist, cause i think y'all would be down with reading this since it's also hannibal: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer @gayschlatt69 @flow33didontsmoke @mrgatotortuga @house-of-1000-corpses-fan

AMERICAN HORROR STORY

Tate Langdon:

Young Love: The sweetness of the rain allows for the feelings of love. Just some fluffy Tate :)

(Romance/Fluff)

Together Forever: Tate isn't letting you go now that he has you within his grasp. You're his and he'll do anything to remind you of that. Even if it means your death.

(Romance/Angst/Yandere)