A Celebration of Trans, Non-Binary, Genderfluid & Genderqueer Fanworks and creators for Hannibal & Hannibal Extended Univers // TRANS HANNIGRAM DAY - 8 APRIL // @TransHanniDay on Twitter
transgender nbc hannibal: everything is exactly the same except hannibal transitions in italy and the red dragon plot is textually about will accepting her true gender.
hannibal x trans masc reader (gender isn't heavily implicated so could be read as gender neutral)
MAJOR WARNINGS FOR: a successful attempt, bodily harm to self, depression, abuse, poor mental health, depictions of blood, death, would you like some angst on top of your angst? probably ooc hannibal.
this is a very dark short story, that comes from a place of mainly coping, you are responsible for your own media consumption. this is not a pretty or lighthearted fic, it is purposely gut wrenching, it is hard to swallow. this is not glorification or promotion of these acts, if you’re suffering with subjects related to these, please seek support <3
synopsis: you prefer the ending of your life to be spent in a session with your psychiatrist than alone, the one thing that makes it difficult? he doesn’t know.
wordcount: 2,540
you arrive 5 minutes late to the appointment. it is unlike you, hannibal notices it immediately, you’re one of his most punctual patients; thats why he doesn’t tense his jaw at the slight tardiness, that’s why he doesn’t immediately jump to thinking the word rude, no, no, something is different today.
you’re wrapped up, smothered in clothing that covers almost all surface area of your skin. it isn’t completely unusual considering the scarring your body harbours, there had been a time like this one, where you refused to put your borderline mutilated skin on show. there shouldn’t be a reason now, that insecurity had started to vanish before, why is it back so suddenly now?
he lets you in with a reserved, small smile. the smile he gets back in return is alarmingly bright and so wrong. hannibal takes to sitting his chair, calmly, while he digests the situation, unravels why there’s a slight churning in his gut.
your aftershave, it had been unbearably strong, enough so it came close to burning his sensitive nose. there was something to ruminate on, underneath, hidden and buried deep.
coppery.
blood.
he tilts his head, you’re speaking fast today. “are you alright?”
you freeze, nodding confidently, flashing that same beaming smile at him. there is an air about you today that is too light, too pleased, happy about something. you’ve never really been happy. in the years he’s been providing therapy, you’ve battled being neurotic, permanently depressed and hopeless. you are one of the few patients that haven’t been influenced to kill, you were more likely to kill yourself before anyone else.
for good reason too, you were a sad case. neglectful family, lack of friends, history of bullying, history of abuse in relationships; it would trample on anyone’s happiness. those events weren’t even the catalyst to the depression that governed every corner of your mind, no, it had simply showed up, before you even became a teen, and followed you since. a long, heavy ball and chain permanently trailing behind. it wasn’t hannibal’s usual field, he knew that, he knew that he should’ve transferred you to someone else long ago.
but he didn’t.
he believed in earnest that he may be able to help you.
it was that or face the fact that there was attachment there. it formed easily, you had always been kind and wonderfully polite. there were many occasions where you paused, and curiously asked about hannibal’s life, genuinely interested in his hobbies and recipes. you’d even sometimes ask shyly at the end of sessions for a recipe or two to be written down.
on good days where you had energy, you’d attempt said recipes, scurrying around your kitchen and meticulously checking on each component of the dish. you’d take pictures and nervously show hannibal, he realised quite quickly it was because you had no one else to show.
you inquired about his interest in the harpsichord and theremin, about his enjoyment of the general arts, music and drawings. he humoured it, answering questions, speaking about what he liked, what mattered to him, it was different - for someone to truly listen.
you weren’t obsessed with hannibal, you weren’t unhealthily seeking his approval or comfort. you were just rather inquisitive and well, authentic.
a few months ago, when your birthday rolled by, hannibal had invited you to dine. you had tried to appear polite, collected, but the telltale sign of your fingers gave away the thrum of excitement, and anxiety hiding under your skin. this particular year had been strenuous, hannibal at multiple occasions, wondered if you’d make it to your next birthday.
but you had. there was an emotion akin to pride swelling within him, each time you’d pull through.
you were presenting signs of recovery, after your birthday you even extended an invitation for him to eat at your residence. your behaviour then was sweet, he struggled not to smile at it, not to breach the patient-psychiatrist relationship more than he already had by visiting your home.
you had served a magnificent roast duck, paired with figs, rosemary and garlic fried potatoes; with a side of sour cherry sauce. he insisted on bringing the wine, and it worked well with the dish. cooking was certainly a good sign, suggested an energy increase, that you may soon engage with hobbies you once enjoyed.
it wasn’t entirely rare for you to slink into sessions with a small tangible scent of blood, dried and slightly perfuming your skin. he always knew when you were in the aftermath of a breakdown, showing up at his home with reddened, avoidant eyes and that coppery taste flooding his senses; a couple days old and not yet fully scrubbed away. that hadn’t occurred in months however, since before your birthday.
you were supposed to be improving.
but the more he looks at you, dissecting what exactly is going on, the more concerned he starts to slowly become. you’re in pain and yet you’re so obviously hiding it from him.
he moves, sliding off his chair and crouching down right beside you. he searches, guiding your eyes to land on him. “are you bleeding?”
you twitch under his scrutiny, he manages to catch something, a fleeting shift in your expression, twinges of guilt and apprehension soaking your eyes. with the closer proximity, it is easier to distinguish why the coppery smell is alarming.
first of all, it’s fresh, not dry like it normally always is.
hannibal leans closer, furrowing his brows and resting a hand on your knee, he doesn’t even realise that he’s touching you, trying to subconsciously ground you enough to come back to yourself, to spill whatever is plaguing you.
he’s breathing in your space, discerning with all his senses what is awfully wrong, the final piece snaps into place quickly.
there is too much blood.
“show me where you are bleeding.” he tries again, lithuanian accent strong and thick.
your lip trembles, and you take a large breath, like trying to keep a tight lid on what is actually bubbling beneath your surface. frustratingly, you avoid his gaze, blinking furiously, there is barely any restraint left within you, whatever this is, it aches, it burns, it is a burden you have carried for too long.
“i’m sorry.” you whisper, swallowing down a barely concealed sob, your vocal chords strain, wobbling and tensing. you are about to break, you don’t want to, not in front of hannibal, this was your choice.
your design.
“i need to see.” he breathes, a slight panic washing in with the tide, waves plunging against his ribs, dangerously close to his heart. hannibal can barely wait a second longer, especially when dark crimson starts to seep through your clothing, staining it, dripping out, spreading, coiling all around you. “you were on the road to recovery-“
the words come to a screeching halt as he watches more and more blood trickle, it is too much. he lurches, shrugging off your excess clothes to find the root, the places of origin where your injuries are weeping, practically crying at him. “no, you weren’t supposed to do this. why did you do this?”
hannibal has never been good with losing things, it’s rare he cares, truly and authentically cares for something, it’s rarer that he has no control over it, that he may lose it, that it may disappear.
the dam finally breaks, you sob, wretched and torn, howling like a child. “i’m sorry, i’m so sorry, i’m never going to recover, i don’t think i’m ever going to get better.” more noises pour from you, wrecked, loud wails. you can barely hear them over the blood pounding in your ears, this is the only way out, all you have ever known is pain, why won’t it stop?
why is hannibal looking at you like that? like you’re wrong? why does he look like he actually cares.
it’s sincere.
“that’s not necessarily true.”
it’s wrong. it causes you to cry louder, trying to thrash when he puts pressure on your wounds, “no! let me go! let me go, don’t save me- d-don’t you dare save me.”
he presses down harder, instincts from being a doctor comes effortlessly, he scans his room, notes down the closest medkit, calculates how long it will take to get to the hospital.
the outcome seems uncertain.
and he despises it.
in a blink he is gone, and then back again, in tow with an armful of bandages. “please, stay still.”
you continue to thrash, your body convulses, whether it’s from blood loss or fear, it’s hard to tell. before arriving today, you had been at peace with this decision, driving that something extra sharp across your skin over and over, gritting your teeth together but continuing, because it needed to be done.
you are sick, exhausted, tired of being this way, there didn’t seem to be a light in sight, a way out that included your happiness, that included your life.
but now hannibal is looking at you. but it’s more than that, he sees you, he spots every jagged line and corner of the pain you carry, he notices every burden that has infiltrated your head, every single thing that has made you feel worthless, splintered.
and he does not move away in disgust, or back away. he presses closer, face frowning, eyes a blurry storm. “i would’ve been there if you had asked. why didn’t you ask? why suffer alone?”
as a doctor, he has one option, to carry out all measures necessary to save your precious life. as a philosopher? he hesitates, he knows, that you have been depressed, pulled apart and hurt for so long. every fibre of your being aches, what you have been through can only been described as agony.
your cries are practically incomprehensible, unintelligible and garbled, sputtering whines, apologies and gasps. thick spurts of tears crash down your cheeks, leaving them wet and damp. the air in your lungs seems nonexistent, there is only hannibal and there is only pain.
why won’t it ever stop?
he wraps layers of bandaging across skin that is now a muddy red, tainted with the precipice of death. “please tell me you understand, please, it hurts too much, my-my heart can’t take it.” you wail, fumbling with your hands to press them against his shoulders, trying to forcibly make him comprehend why, to not be angry or disappointed.
despite his efforts, your blood still floods, a steady inferno that takes and takes from your fragile body. one second there is numbness seeping into your very bones, the next, there are fields of spikes coursing over your skin, alongside rushes of burning and cascades of ice. it is every sensation at once, overwhelming, dizzying.
it is your body fighting, attempting to claw its way back from death’s precarious edge. there are little words to describe someone who is in so much pain, especially this amount of pain that they’re driven to do this. to snuff out their own light, with certainty that in their mind it’s the right thing to do.
it isn’t, not to hannibal, or to anyone who would’ve had the honour to know you. hannibal carries you to his car, placing you as gently as he can into the passenger seat.
you do not remember the journey, just the flashing of blurred lights and the concerned timbre of the man next to you, “stay awake for me please.” you muster enough energy to gaze at him, upon the person trying to save you, even though you pleaded not to be saved.
it is just your stuttered breaths and hannibal’s far away words, he mumbles unintelligibly on the phone, no doubt alerting the hospital, his driving never seems to sway, it is just the steady whirring of the engine and the tires running along tarmac.
it is his deep brown eyes you see when things start to go cold, you blink blearily at him, resigned to a tired regret. “stay awake now.” you hear it distantly, breath hitching. it is all very cold.
if anyone could’ve saved you, stopped it, it would’ve been hannibal. you are ink on parchment, so close to dragging into a semi colon, but unfortunately transcending to just a period. a screeching halt on paper, never to be continued.
you never reach the hospital, hannibal does not make it in time, you bleed out on his passenger seat right as he turns into the parking lot. when your heart ceased to pump, hannibal bore witness to the last breath crawling up your throat.
it is not how you would’ve liked your story to have ended.
hannibal sweeps over his office, settling into his usual chair silently, he smoothes over his suit jacket, right along the lapel, and just thinks. the seat directly opposite has been changed, the one before it was stained, coated in a thick crimson that just wasn’t able to wash away.
there are no appointments for today, all of them postponed to the rest of the week. he thumbs over a couple buttons along his suit and then reaches for a glass of whiskey on the table beside him. it has been a year now.
a whole year of you ceasing to exist, despite your permanent absence, hannibal still half expects you to turn up at your allotted time for therapy, more often than not he leaves the space open. you are a ghost leaving its ghoulish imprints subtly on his life, floating around his halls when it is too silent.
it is three hundred and sixty five days that you have been dead, lowered into the ground like it was an everyday occurrence, like your life wasn’t precious. now you are suffocated by soil, the creatures crawling beneath the dirt ache to sink into your corpse. it leaves a sour taste in his mouth.
there was nothing else to be done, he’d reacted fast, bandaged you swiftly, drove fast, it couldn’t be unchanged. despite the rationalisation, your glassy, devoid of life eyes still remained in flashes of dreams and behind his lids when he closed them. how does one forget a death that shouldn’t have happened?
he’s used to blood, to a high body count of corpses, he is a carver of skin and consumer of ‘pigs’. it is purposeful, a choice.
you were not.
hannibal crafts a dinner, wrapped with hints of grief and disdain. he serves it on two plates, sets one down in his usual seat and then the other beside it. he drinks the same wine he brought to yours, swallows the tang, gulps around the redness of it. you will not show up to dine, to choke over your words in a flurry of excitement, you will not compliment his food with a beaming hum and smile.
you no longer exist.
so who's to comment when people that mistreated you when you were alive go missing? their murders are barbaric, they are catalogued immediately to the chesapeake ripper's collection, they struggle to find a link, you were a ghost before you even died. it makes him inwardly seethe, but there is nothing to be said.
you are dead, and he may be the only one that ever mourns.
@huraxy for divider creds!!
A/N: i craved some hannibal whump/angst and i think this qualifies as damaging enough! i rewatched hannibal a little while ago with friends and it reminded me how life altering that show is, it will always hold a special place in my heart and i love how the fandom eats up soul crushing writing <3 i hope you enjoy this!! and sorry in advance if anyone cries haha
Will is confronted by Hannibal’s extracurricular activities, and one game comes to an end.
“Hannibal,” He starts, and his eyes slew to Hannibal’s face, “why is there blood on my knife?”
Hannibal keeps his body language open- legs spread, shoulders relaxed. “You said you liked having a man’s life under your knife,” he says. “I wanted to give you that chance, again.”
Will blinks rapidly. His hand moves along the length, his fingertip barely brushing the blade. His breath shudders out in a disbelieving sigh.
Rising, circling, Hannibal steps in behind the boy, a familiar motion. Will stiffens as Hannibal’s biceps slide against his shoulders, as he slowly wraps his arms around his smaller body. Carefully, he lays his arms on top of the younger man’s, feeling the parallel tightness of each muscle, each minute function of the machine of him. Will stays stock-still. “Or perhaps I wanted to feel what it was like to be you, for a little while.” His fingers find Will’s on the handle of the knife, wrapping over them. “To wield your power.”
Will’s eyes squeeze closed, and his head shakes, as a dog shakes off water. He steps forward out of Hannibal’s embrace, the knife bare in his hand, his wrists tense. “This isn’t about some abstract power you’re convinced I have, ‘empathy’ or ‘singularity’.” He takes a breath, his eyelids stuttering. “You’re… you’re making me guilty. Making sure I’m complicit. That for any atrocity you commit, I’m at fault too.”
Hannibal’s mouth softens slightly in a smile. “Even.” He says. “Equal.”
Will turns the knife over in his hands, his mind working. “I could get rid of it.”
“You won’t.” Hannibal says, devilishly gentle.
Will glances up at him, and his eyes are hard and interested. “No. I won’t.”
Hannibal will NOT misgender you. You made yourself out of shiny marble, chipping away at what god unfairly dealt you and you took the reigns back from the chariots of hell.
He will eat you with sauce and beans but he will respect your wish to obtain or get rid of yojr. Oenis ☝️
When Hannibal told Francis Dolarhyde "What particular body you currently occupy is trivial" — as someone who's currently experiencing gender difficulties this speaks to me on a personal level afldskjfds
Imagine being trans in the Hannibal universe, seeijg a therapist for hormones, maybe bottom surgery, and in the middle of complaining your parents dont respect your pronouns your therapists like "God too grows angry when his children do not follow his plan, yet we have been granted free will to follow our own path. Do you grow angry at God, [real name]?" And youre confused as fuck about that for like 3 years before seeing him in the news
tw short period pain Hannigram drabble to cope with my own:
imagining a younger Hannibal Lecter curled up in bed with his back to Will’s chest, in agony on his heating pad, pleading with Will to stop teasing him. Will heard somewhere that orgasms help relieve cramps. Hannibal knows that’ll only make it worse for him, but Will won’t let it go. Doesn’t care about Hannibal’s protests that he’s a goddamn doctor and knows what he’s talking about. Will just keeps playing with Hanni’s poor cunt through his soft sleep pants, shushing him that he’s only trying to help, he’s here to make it better.
It’s making a mess but Hannibal is in too much pain to fight him off. He doesn’t want to ruin his clothes or the sheets and it’s going to hurt so much worse after but Will’s determined he knows best. He keeps going, murmuring sweet nothings, until Hannibal is begging and kicking out his feet, trying to get away but helpless to the building pleasure. He whines as he comes, cursing under his breath, flushed with endorphins and bittersweet rage. He gets a few seconds of relief before the cramps come raging back twice as hard. I told you so falls on deaf ears as per usual.
Will pets his head and runs him a bath with all the trimmings as Hannibal groans about it from the other room. He happily drives across Baltimore to get the most expensive ice cream in the state while Hannibal soaks with a glass of wine and plots his revenge
I need a Clarisse Starling -> Transman Will graham fic..... Im begging omg plsss
Will training to be in the FBI, then getting rejected, then realizing he's trans, then transitioning, then becoming a professor???? crazy. I need it. desperately.
Trans Hannigram Supremacy @transhanniday - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
