#Jack The Ripper Suspects

[chamerionwrites]

Speaking as someone who would be delighted if both US political parties fell into the sea…the audacity of straight men who staunchly support the We Hate Women party and expect this not to alter the statistical odds of them getting laid by even a single iota

[corpyburd]

Prefer not to promote JtR here but this made me spit my tea out!🤭

Photo from Twitter

[volfoss]

Everything I learn about AC syndicate makes it funnier tbh

[navree]

criminal minds is a bit weird in how it presents profiling because, like, the stuff they do is based on real profiling, but they're always so much more vague than real profiling is

[wyervan]

God I love a psychic in a horror film, they’re always such fun characters to watch and so special. Often instrumental in plot.

A clairvoyant AND an academic is exactly what Sun and Moon are in absolute dire need of! They’re certainly successful with their little escapades, but certainly lack a certain, hmm, elegance to their execution.

Actually, i picture them blundering through many of their slapdash plans and narrowly avoiding police by the skin of their teeth most of the time.

Oo now Im imagining a dramatic scene where this character reveals that she knows all about their shenanigans! I do wonder how that would play out~~

Ohhhhhh, I could not resist!!!!! I had to hop on the Final Girl sona train, your AU is simply giving me so much joy! @wyervan

I present Astrid, she is an avid fan of historical murder mysteries and is quite shrewd, often acting as an improvised detective and leaving anonymous hints to law enforcement for solving various cold cases. She has a whole doctorate thesis on who Jack the Ripper was.

Astrid has low level psychic abilities, capable of sensing by the vibes of objects whether or not a violent death took place nearby. The vibes and emotions in the walls of the arcade had caught her attention one day and she began to visit more often, reading inside and observing. Sun and Moon intrigue her greatly and it did not take her too long to put two and two together to figure out what they are doing. However, she understands their motivations as vigilantes that are trying to protect children and are doing their form of justice, so she is reluctant to report them.

As their bond and relationship progress and deepen, Astrid becomes a type of informant for Sun and Moon, giving them tips which areas with police patrols to avoid, when a raid will take place and leaking secrets and files of various cases with potential new targets that got away from the official justice system.

I hope you like her! Thank you once again for making such a lovely new wonderful universe, I love your boys so much!!!!!

[scholarofgloom]

[moonstruckme]

i recently found your page and i became instantly obsessed, you're such a good writer!! i'm not sure if you're taking requests rn (if you're not, ignore this hahaha) but i saw a post somewhere saying that when spencer is in love he loses the sense of direction 😭 we saw moments like those with lila and maeve (like he starts walking but then it's the wrong direction <33) and i was thinking about that with bau!reader!! they're on a case and he gets distracted by her and starts walking on the opposite direction or says something wrong and the team is all like??? because he never gets things wrong and maybe morgan teases him or something like that

sorry for the veryyyy long message!! i just thought it could be so cute, and you would write it perfectly!! obviously if you want to write it in a different way it's okay, i would be happy if you wrote it (but again, if you're not feeling it it's completely okay!! 💗) thank you and have a good day :))

Thank you sweetness <3

Spencer Reid x bau!reader ♡ 539 words

There’s an eyelash on your cheek. You’re staring at the board, and your lips are all pursed, and you’re sitting forward on your elbows, and there’s an eyelash on your cheek. Spencer has no idea how you haven’t noticed it, sitting there with both ends curled upward, precipitous on the curve of your cheekbone.

You’re saying something to Hotch about the overly gruesome nature of the case, how it points to a connection with the victims. Your cheek moves as you talk. The eyelash looks like it should be a breath away from falling off, and yet it stays stubbornly in place. Spencer really, really wants to get it for you. It’d be such a tiny gesture, the quick brush of his finger underneath your eye, so brief no one would have the chance to question it. He wonders if you believe in wishing on eyelashes. He’s seen you throw salt over your shoulder more than once, but you claim it’s more a habit from childhood than actual superstition. Still, you’re more a romantic than you like to let on. But the origin of the salt tossing is more rooted in Christianity, Spencer thinks, whereas the practice of wishing on eyelashes is more recent and often suspected to be rooted in Paganism. It supposedly emerged only in the eighteenth or nineteenth centuries, when someone in the British isles spread word that blowing an eyelash off your finger was the equivalent of blowing away the Devil, and eventually the belief morphed into good luck and wishes. Spencer wonders what you’d wish for. 

“And it’s pretty clear what this is hailing to.” Prentiss’ voice is weary. 

“Paganism,” Spencer says quietly, absentmindedly.

“What?” 

Spencer blinks, returning to the room to find the entire table has turned to look at him. “Sorry, I—I was thinking about something else.” He glances at the board. “Jack the Ripper. The degree of mutilation is the same.” 

“Right,” Hotch says, instantly back on task. “And if we’re right, he’s going to act again soon. Wheels up in twenty.” 

Spencer picks up his bag, but doesn’t leave the room. “Hey,” he says as you stand, stepping closer to you. “You’ve got an eyelash.” 

You blink, almost knocking it askew, but hold still as Spencer brings a hand to your face, brushing it onto his finger. 

Your cheek pushes upwards as you give him a lopsided smile. “Thanks,” you say.

“Wanna make a wish?” 

You make a soft, amused sound. “I don’t believe in that, and I know you don’t either.” But when Spencer holds up his fingertip, you lean forwards anyway. Your mouth purses prettily, a tiny little o, and you blow softly. It’s a small puff of air, but the eyelash whirls off into the air. The both of you track it until it reaches the ground.

You quirk an eyebrow at Spencer as if to say satisfied? and go, passing your hand along his arm fondly as you exit.

Spencer follows after you like you’ve got him on a leash, and it’s only once he’s in Garcia’s office that you say “Do you need something, Spence? I just came to bring Penelope something,” and he realizes he’s completely forgotten where he was supposed to be going.

[pillow-anime-talk]

his pregnant girl.

synopsis: A little slice of life scenes where his significant other is pregnant.

# tags: headcanons; current marriage relationships; slice of life; soft romance; mostly fluff; maybe a bit of comedy; pregnancy; mention of faint and vomit; sfw

includes: female reader ft. qin shi huang, adam, jack the ripper & nikola tesla {ror}

author’s note: i just woke up, thought about it and wrote it. enjoy :)

— QIN SHI

↘ When Ying Zheng saw you for the first time, he thought you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen; you had a lovely and gentle smile, your eyes sparkled in the sun like the most pretty gemstones, your skin looked healthy and tidy, and you were wearing a flowery dress that was perfect for the current weather in the city. That day, the Emperor went for a walk to the capital to see how his people were doing. However, the moment he saw you – when you were buying fresh fruit from one of the sellers – his thoughts were only focused on you and your blushes. On the same day you were brought to the palace as the first concubine, although you quickly felt something more for the King of China and he also felt the same in a very short time.

↘ Qin Shi Huang never had any more concubines; you completely occupied his mind and heart by being by his side until the very end. In the meantime, however, you began to spend private time with each other: talking, eating together and walking around the gardens in the huge palace. Those were really beautiful and memorable years for you.

↘ A few long months after your first meeting, after you moved into the palace, and after becoming the country’s first empress, a huge, loving smile lit up your face. The trusted doctor that day gave you very important information and as it turned out – you were pregnant. You almost cried at the news, thanking the doctor for his help. At first, you suspected food poisoning because of the morning sickness, but the information of having a small child under your heart, the fruit of your and the Emperor’s love, was the best thing that could have happened to you.

↘ As soon as your beloved returned to the mansion, you asked him for a private conversation. He instantly sent all the gathered guards away and took your hand. For a moment he was afraid that you were sick, that you didn’t love him, that you wanted to leave, but the truth turned out to be completely different.

↘ “...I’m pregnant.” You whispered a simple sentence, touching your slightly swollen tummy, and the man frowned. “The baby is doing well at the moment, but I was recommended daily visits because this will be our first kid.” You added quietly. After a short while, you felt a warm touch of fingers on your cheeks, and then a light kiss in the middle of your lips.

↘ “I am very happy, my Queen. I hope he or she will be born healthy.” He whispered and you nodded shyly. “Now you have to take care of yourself more than before. I’ll ask the maids to fill the tubs with warm water. If you want, I can join you. I want to see you.” He added directly to your ear and you blushed instantly on the cheeks. Even if Zheng was the Emperor, he was your husband in the first place... a bit of a playful and provocative husband.

— ADAM

↘ You realized something was wrong when your tummy was bigger than it should have been – of course you could have blamed it on eating too much fruit or drinking too much water, but that wasn’t it. You felt different; a little insecure, a little weird. For the next few days you were looking for answers to your ailments, stomach pains, swollen fingers and ankles, slightly aching spine.

↘ “... Are you okay, Y/N?” A calm voice reached your ears and you looked up at the fair-haired, handsome man who was lying on his back in the grass and looking up at the night sky. You hesitantly touched your stomach, shaking your head. You already knew the answer to your question yesterday, but you were still getting ready to confess the truth to your partner. “Tell me what is going on.” He said, this time looking straight at your face. His eyes were calm, slightly tired, but still full of warmth.

↘ “I have... a child in me, Adam.” You spoke softly, almost inaudibly, but the man understood your words perfectly. He lifted his head a bit and then the whole body. A second later he walked over to you sitting on a flat rock. He touched your face hesitantly, looking for a bit of a joke in you, but when he couldn’t find one, he just smiled. “You are mad at me?”

↘ “Where did this idea come from?” He asked surprised as he sat down next to your person. His arm wrapped around your waist and his hand touched your swollen belly. “It’s mine, so I love it. I love you too.” He said confidently and you sighed in relief. “When will I be able to see her? Or him?”

↘ “Oh, I don’t know.” You admitted slightly amused, then touched your tummy as well. “Sometimes I feel it moving. I think it’s healthy.” You said, nodding your head and your lover hugged your body tighter to his. You looked definitely different than a few weeks ago, but still the most beautiful in Adam’s eyes. Your eyes were feisty, your hair got a beautiful golden flash, your complexion definitely improved.

↘ The state of blessedness was a time full of worries, but also assurances that you two will be fine.

— JACK

↘ You and Jack have been trying for a baby for many months. Your relationship was strong and connected by marriage, so the child was the next stage of your love and confirmation of your feelings. However, it was difficult for you to predict whether the expected pregnancy was already developing in your womb or not yet; so far you have not felt any pain or nausea, on the contrary, you felt very well. Nevertheless, one day, you found a trusted doctor who had successfully provided prenatal care to many local pregnant women. After a short conversation with a middle-aged man, you were examined.

↘ “... I’ve been working for many years and if my experience doesn’t deceive me... I can say at this moment that you are expecting a baby.” He said in a calm tone. “All of my patients had the same symptoms as you, including amenorrhea and increased appetite. I can’t tell how many weeks the baby is currently, but I assume it’s the second or third month of pregnancy.” He added, and then on a slightly yellowed piece of paper he wrote you some recommendations for taking care of your health in the coming weeks. You almost passed out after leaving the cabinet, but the excitement was overwhelming in your mind. You quickly returned to your apartment in a small tenement house, where your partner was waiting for you.

↘ He was about to drop a cup of beautifully scented tea as soon as he looked into your eyes and noticed the bright orange aura surrounding you. Your aura was strong and visible like never before.

↘ “M-My darling, are you okay?” He asked anxiously as your hand embraced his much larger, slightly colder, hand. “Everything’s all right?” He asked again and you nodded your head, hugging his body as quickly as possible.

↘ “Honey, I think I’m pregnant. I went to the doctor and he said it’s the second or third month.” You whispered, a bit ashamed. Your partner looked at your belly and then at your pretty face. He instantly hugged you tighter, smiling. He was so happy and fulfilled.

↘ “My lady. Even that, we can make sure of the doctor’s words and talk about it in the bedroom, what do you think about it?” He said in a low voice, making your nose blush. You only nodded your head in response and a moment later the man lifted your body up.

— NIKOLA

↘ You’ve known Nikola since... always. You were best friends who grew up together and over time started to feel something more about each other. Nikola was a man with a big heart, both for science and for people who were especially important to him – his beloved brother, the rest of his immediate family and, most of all, you.

↘ You were a harmonious couple who supported each other always and regardless of the situation. You were proud of your husband’s zeal and achievements, of his inventions, of his failures, of all his attempts, of his small and big mistakes, of his great desires, of his smile and much more. You supported him as much as you could, always offering him a hot meal, a sweet or a cup of fresh coffee. Sometimes you would come to his studio to spend some time with him and talk. Sometimes you helped him with his ideas and not infrequently your reasoning helped him get things going.

↘ Not one invention has been named after you or the first letter of your name.

↘ As an engineer’s wife, you knew many things; you could construct a simple mechanism, describe it, you could calculate difficult mathematical formulas and you read books with interest. So when your body started changing you knew you might be pregnant; all the girls close to you had similar or even the same symptoms as you. You’ve been thinking for a long time about telling the truth to a man who is currently dealing with his greatest work in life. But if you hadn’t done it then, you probably wouldn’t have had the courage to do it later.

↘ “... Honey, do you have a moment?” Upon entering his studio, you asked uncertainly, shaking a brown basket filled with food. Your lover nodded quickly and tightened the last screw, then came over to you, kissing your forehead. “Your favourite.” You added and he just chuckled and thanked you.

↘ You sat in carefree silence for a while. Your fingers brushed the hem of your dress and your eyes wandered from one corner of the room to the other. Finally, the man asked if you were feeling unwell. You sighed, playing with the sleeve of the clothes.

↘ “I’m pregnant, Nikola.” You giggled in your soul, looking at his face.

↘ A fork with a piece of meat fell on the table next to important papers and your husband looked at you in indescribable shock. It took him a moment to recalculate what you just said to him, and then he felt that the world around is getting darker... and darker.

↘ “Nikola?!” You screamed, catching his body falling to the side. Although the reaction at first scared you, the moment your partner woke up, you experienced the greatest love attack of your life. The man gave you soft kisses all over your face, shouting every now and then that he would be a father and that he would name his next invention after your son or daughter.

[honeygrahambitch]

"If you have already excluded the teachers and the students, could your killer be an alumni perhaps? I wouldn't exclude the janitor either." Hannibal suggested as he flipped through the pages of the case file.

"Good point. Jack won't be happy about other hundreds of potential suspects." Will replied as he sat next to Hannibal, placing the pictures of the last two crime scenes in front of them on the table."Thanks for making time to come all the way here to help."

"Jack asked me to bring the report from the assessment of the ice cream truck killer anyway. I was hoping you would need some help while I'd be here."

"Ah right, you conducted the assessment. He looked like a handful."

"Not the best time Alana could choose for a vacation. However, I did consult on the case. I was familiar enough."

"Careful, if you are too helpful Jack will start expecting things from you. Does he know you're helping me with the case?"

"I might have told him that I will pass by your classroom to say hi." Hannibal said casually as he picked one of the gruesome pictures.

"You overstayed your "hi", doctor."

"Would you like me to leave? I quite appreciate your company."

"No, likewise." Will replied. "It can get quite gloomy in here."

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Hannibal didn't miss his exhausted sigh.

"Don't spiral too much, Will. This killer is not very experienced. He will make a mistake. He is too disorganized for my taste."

Will smiled. Of course, what else to expect from the Ripper?

"Tell me about his design." Hannibal said.

"I'd rather not."

Oh?

Hannibal lifted his gaze from the case file and met Will's. That had not happened before. He decided he would adapt himself to what Will felt like doing. He nodded and went ahead "Very well."

"Not because I don't want to." Will explained. "I quite enjoy our conversations when they are not about serial killers."

Hannibal closed the case file instantly. "Ditto. However you did say that you were happy I could help."

"I needed your help to disconnect myself from the case. And you are doing great."

Hannibal tilted his head to one side. He could never fully anticipate Will's motives.

"I wish I had brought a bottle of wine."

"We could break into Jack's office. I know where he keeps his whiskey. The single malt one not the one he serves people with."

Hannibal found the thought amusing.

Speak of the wolf.

"Doctor, you are still here." Jack greeted him as he entered the classroom.

"Thought I might have a look at the current case."

"We do need all the help we can get. How does it look like, Will?" Jack asked a bit unsatisfied with Will's annoyed expression.

"It looks like you would sleep better at night if I told you tomorrow."

"I am not going to sleep until we have found him."

"I hope you got enough coffee then." Will replied as he grabbed the case file from the table and started flipping through it. Looking anywhere else but at Jack was a better idea.

"I will leave you to it then. Doctor." Jack said and headed towards the door. Will and Hannibal had their way of making those around feel like they are intruding.

"Was I rude?"

"You were genuine. You are not catching this killer tonight. No point in giving Jack any kind of hope. Besides, you are tired."

Hannibal started rearranging the pictures on the table. Will watched him closely from behind the file, like a cheetah watching an antilope from the tall grass.

Even the smallest gestures were performed in a gracious manner. He would make the perfect antilope was it not for the fact that he was a carnivore predator.

And besides, Will knew that Hannibal was very much aware of the fact that his actions were carefully watched.

"I find it curious that he did not severe the arm of his second victim."

Will leaned in, at least trying to pretend he was paying attention to the case.

"He didn't take any trophy?" Hannibal went on. Will was now so close to him that his stare could hardly be ignored.

"Hannibal."

"Hmm?" He asked as he turned his head to him, their gazes finally meeting.

Will leaned in even more, hesitantly, as if he was waiting for permission, until his lips met Hannibal's.

Hannibal didn't draw back and leaned in as well, feeling the faint scratch of Will's stubble. Their lips parted too soon for his own pleasure.

"No, no trophy from the second victim." Will said as he grabbed the picture. "Or at least we haven't figured out if he took something."

"Will?" Hannibal asked a bit confused. As he imagined the previous thing? How could Will just move on and pretend it didn't happen?

"I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking." He apologized, this time averting his gaze as much as he could. "It was a bit of an impulse."

"Can it be a bit of an impulse once more?"

"You don't have to do anything you are not comfortable with."

"What if I am comfortable with it?" Hannibal said, taking the picture from Will's hands and leaning in. Will hesitated at first, just like a predator who tastes blood for the first time. The taste is new but addicting. And slowly, it becomes something to crave daily. "Your problem is that you always assume for the worst. I like you and your company." Hannibal explained. "And your lips."

"This is really not the best place for..." Will said as he rested his forehead against Hannibal's, searching for his lips again, in spite of being worried about someone coming in.

"You started it." Hannibal whispered, pleased with Will's eagerness to get more or him.

"If someone comes in..."

"Just say the word and I will leave." The thought itself made Will press himself against Hannibal. His mistake had been that he had seen Hannibal as the antilope in the beginning. Hannibal was just another cheetah watching him from behind the grass. He had been weak. He had given in. Became the prey.

Hannibal's hand touched his face, his thumb pressing against his cheekbone in such a gentle way that Will allowed all his thoughts to fade away.

"What are you thinking about?" Hannibal asked as their lips parted once more, sensing the various thoughts that might have been crossing Will's mind.

"You." Will replied. "What now?"

"You were saying, he didn't take any trophy from the second victim."

"No, not that crap." Will interrupted him, realizing how needy he sounded. The new need was indeed dangerous.

"Ah, forgive me." Hannibal smiled then kissed Will's forehead, nose and lips. Will placed his hands on Hannibal's chest and kissed him hungrily, all the shyness from earlier seemingly disappearing. He didn't give Hannibal the chance to part his lips, he directly bit them to make for himself.

The metallic flavour awakened something in both of them. Hannibal felt an electric chill run down his spine at the thought that his blood, his own blood, was now in Will's mouth.

It belonged to Will therefore.

He moaned softly into him, feeling his whole self slowly surrendering. .

Will was just as ecstatic as Hannibal, especially when he met no obstacle on his way to french kiss him. The more he got the taste of him, the less he wanted to stop. If Jack entered then what? He could absolutely fuck off, there was nothing that could interrupt them.

Will hummed and sucked on Hannibal's lower lip, hungry for more blood. Hannibal allowed himself to be consumed, the euphoric feeling going through every inch of his body.

"I could easily become addicted." Will confessed in between kisses.

"Please become addicted." Hannibal replied. "You can have all of me." He added as his hand travelled to the back of Will's head.

Will licked the corner of Hannibal's lips, craving more of him. The sight of his own blood on Will's lips did things to Hannibal that he was not aware he could feel. He imagined how Will could take him right there over his desk and he wouldn't fight it.

His thumb wiped away the blood on Will's lips and slowly pushed in past his slightly parted mouth, searching for his tongue. There was something about feeding Will his own self that made his blood rush.

Will accepted him in and even took his finger in between his teeth. He let go only when Hannibal's lips were pressed against his temple, feeling as if he was venerating him for the simple gesture. It was not long until their lips met again, longingly.

Will's hands found Hannibal's pockets, his thumbs slowly caressing his hip bones, earning a groan from him.

"Home." Will said as an order to which Hannibal nodded obediently.

[chaifootsteps]

I honestly don’t think Pentious coming forward about Jack the Ripper would have even led to him getting caught. At least viewing the Ripper case historically. Depending on when Pentious would nut up, anyway.

Part of what made Jack the Ripper so hard to catch was how huge the case exploded out of control. Authorities had a consistent stream of phoney accounts, fakes claiming someone they knew was/encountered Jack, and the dozens and dozens of letters being sent by people pretending to be him. Some factory owner claiming he saw the Super Secret Unknown TRUE First Victim of Jack the Ripper would get discarded, buried, and lost as some asshole looking to get a piece of the fame.

The other part that left the case unsolved is the same as most unsolved murders; there just wasn’t any concrete evidence definitively tying any of the big suspects (of which there were many). Two of the prime suspects had DNA evidence at various scenes, but even then not enough of a smoking gun to get a confession or conviction. And considering witness testimonies are often very shakey and unreliable to build a case off of, if police HAD followed up with Pentious, if Helluverse Jack was a powerful elite, any lawyer would have poked holes and discredited his testimony completely.

And that’s another pet peeve I have here; I get that it’s a fictionalized version here, but the idea that Jack was some high-class lord who could just get away with his crimes because he was rich doesn’t hold up under any actual examination of the evidence, and came around in the 1960s. The suspect with the most high-standing was a schoolteacher; all the other suspects were either journalists, sailors, painters, barbers. Even when the case was re-examined in the 80s and compared to more recent killers, they came to the same conclusion. Whoever The Ripper was, he was most likely some antisocial working class guy that already lived on the East End that, for some reason, started murdering prostitutes for sport. Also he was probably left-handed, something the Victorian British Upperclass hated.

This, this, all of this. If you're going to base your character's life and death around Jack the Ripper and have him living in the same neighborhood and witnessing the death of a real human being who actually existed, at least try to act like you gave enough of a shit to open a book.

Also, the idea that Jack the Ripper was some wealthy guy in a sexy black coat and top hat is fun, but it's nonsense and in this case, borderline offensive. He would have stuck out like a sore thumb. In actuality, like you said, Jack the Ripper was probably a normal looking working class guy who could blend in with a crowd and knew his way around the East End.

[thetemplarknight]

Jack the Ripper unmasked - find out more!

For two years, I’ve been investigating the Jack the Ripper case – pouring over the original police and court records, as well as contemporary newspaper reports and other evidence. What I’ve uncovered will amaze you. On May 28, 2024 – I will reveal all in a new book: Jack the Ripper and Abraham Lincoln (Troubador publishing). The spark for this investigation was an appearance on the documentary…

[strangestcase]

I will say something about Jekyll and Hyde adaptations and it is that they seem to exist a whole world away from the popular perception of Jekyll and Hyde. Like I GET people seeing Frankenstein's monster as a sad mumbling Boris Karloff in a fake forehead forever because the movie featuring him was insanely popular. I GET people seeing Dracula as a sexy vampire because Dracula adaptations lean hard on him being attractive. Meanwhile the number of adaptations that genuinely treat Jekyll and Hyde as The Good Sad Guy and The Super Evil Fucked Up Killmurderer respectively is... well, I am certain that's an invention of the musical. I have watched a worrying amount of Jekyll and Hyde movies and while a lot of them portray Jekyll as certainly more concerned with Hyde's mounting violence than his book counterpart, yknow, due to having a girlfriend that he's subconsciously just itching to eviscerate Jack the Ripper style, a majority of them are short of having him just fucking stare at the camera and say "see, I become Hyde all the time because I'm using Hyde as an outlet, and I just happen to be a terrible fucking person" out loud. They're not very subtle about his motivations, but then again neither is the book, so I suspect the issue is that way too many fucking people are ready to believe a character that we KNOW to be a liar, that we KNOW to be duplicitous, when he says "I swear I really didn't want to hurt all the people I've been actively choosing to hurt over and over again!". Just... weird abuse apologia, I guess.

[otrtbs]

Hi I hope you're doing well 🌷

I had a question. I'm totally asking out of pure curiosity, it's not a criticism or anything of the sort.

In ahb (this masterpiece of yours) Sirius's favorite painting is Degas' Dancers.

I wanted to know if you knew the background of this painting and if making it Sirius' favorite was a deliberate choice or if you had no idea at all.

Because the Ballerinas in Opera Garnier in Paris were all really young and mostly, they were poor. The dancers were often their family's hope to crawl out of misery.

The audience was full of men.

In fact, the sad flip side was that there was a whole prostitution network behind the scene. With these young girls. Men could pay for backstage access to watch ballerinas change and sometimes rape them.

So Degas was a big customer.

That's how he painted the dancers and most of his works.

That's again how he sculpted the ballerina, her tutu was added meaning the 14 year old girl was posing nude.

Degas is also suspected of being Jack the Ripper, there are a certain number of credible leads and potential evidences.

That's why I was wondering if you knew.

Since there is this whole chapter where they insult Picasso (as they should) I found it strange that Degas being a known major p*do did not receive the same treatment.

Ps: I'm french, I don't know if I made any mistakes writing this, if I have please excuse me I tried my best 🙏

Okay hi, hello! I am doing well and I hope you are as well! You have unlocked Art Historian Thesis Nat, so I am going to put an extremely lengthy post under the cut, I'm so sorry (this is literally my area of study,,, i fear i am incapable of being brief about this)

I do want to clarify that right off the bat, I don't necessarily think many of these art historical figures are "good people". Like none of them are the best, most moral, upstanding citizens you should model your life after (but they're also dead sooooo). But I also understand that I did take some time in my fanfiction to make my hatred for Picasso very clear, and so I can also understand the confusion in not extending that same hatred towards Degas. But there are a few reasons for that, that I'll try to explain below!

The direct historical documentation of Pablo Picasso's violence towards the women in his life is vast and damning. If you want particularly good insight into his violence and abuse, then I recommend reading Marina Picasso's (Picasso's granddaughter) memoir titled: Picasso: My Grandfather. I also recommend Françoise Gilot's (romantic partner of Picasso) books, Life with Picasso and Picasso and Matisse. It is through the memories of the people who loved Picasso and who loved him in turn, that we hear of his sadistic nature that drove his lovers to suicide and we get personal letters that he wrote to Gilot in which he says things like "Dora, for me, was always a weeping woman… And it’s important, because women are suffering machines" and "For me there are only two kinds of women: goddesses and doormats." His granddaughter has this to say about him: “He submitted [women] to his animal sexuality, tamed them, bewitched them, ingested them, and crushed them onto his canvas. After he had spent many nights extracting their essence, once they were bled dry, he would dispose of them.” And Gilot says: "I am the only one to not have been sacrificed to the sacred monster(…) and is alive to tell the tale. He was a wonderful person to be with, it was like fireworks, amazingly creative, so intelligent and seductive(…) but he was also very cruel, sadistic and ruthless with others and with himself (…) It was the greatest love of my life, but you have to protect yourself (…) The others did not, they clung to the powerful minotaur and paid a very high price."

Why this matters: The evidence for Degas being so virulently misogynistic and cruel towards women is extremely less substantial and more speculative in nature.

Degas being Jack the Ripper. Degas being Jack the Ripper started off as a tiktok theory posed in early 2024, (though you can find an article as early as 2004 written by The Guardian's art critic here) and while fun to think about and speculate, it isn't true. August and September and November of 1888 is when the Jack the Ripper crimes were committed in London and Degas was in the South of France at that time receiving medical treatment because he was in extremely poor health. (Which you can find in The Letters of Edgar Degas edited by Theodore Reff (I'm sure there's. free PDF version out there somewhere)). Also, self-admittedly speculative, but Degas didn't visit the East-End of London when he did make his excursions to London because he was classist 😭. So, it would be odd for him to know the ins and outs of the streets where the murders took place. And also he had failing eyesight starting at 36, so the odds of him being Jack the Ripper are extremely slim.

The Ballerinas Yes, while it is true that the ballerina's were often subject to horrific conditions and were prostitutes for the "wealthy" patrons of the opera house, this does not mean that Degas partook in that. in fact, most historical documentation surmises he didn't. Degas considered himself a "realist" painter rather than an impressionist painter, wishing to document "real life" in all of its ugliness, beauty and unstylized truth. Therefore his primary concern was documenting the opera house and ballet in all of the moments, not just when the girls were dancing on stage. And in many of his paintings, Degas captures the opera patronsn in his ballerina paintings as lurkers behind the stage curtains as sinister black shadows, or as men predatorily watching in nice suits (e.g. Ballet, 1876 and The Rehearsal of the Ballet Onstage (1874)). But Degas himself, was NEVER a ballerina patron, he is even quoted as saying "People call me the painter of dancing girls. It has never occurred to them that my chief interest in dancers lies in rendering movement...". (now this is not because Degas was morally outraged at what was happening to the ballerina's, but because he viewed the men abusing the girls as committing a sin against God by sleeping with prostitutes). But while Degas had access to backstage, he was never a customer. And in fact, Degas is a notorious, well-documented celibate. This is because Degas believed sleeping with women would make him lose his special painting ability. No lie. Here's a direct quote from Vincent Van Gogh in his a letter to his brother Theo about the artist: "Degas lives like a little lawyer and does not like women, for he knows that if liked them and went to bed with them, he would become intellectually diseased and would no longer be able to paint." Degas was also known to reject ballerina's advances as well (again, fearing women would take away his magic painting power).

Feelings towards women By all accounts, Degas friends describe him as being reclusive towards women to being jovial with them, but always kind to them outside of a working environment. He even developed friendships with his fellow contemporary women painters. In a working environment, Degas was obsessed with perfection, demanding ballerinas contort their bodies in painful positions, and making them hold those positions for hours at a time. By all accounts, this was not because he hated them, but was obsessed with capturing their movements, the limitations of the human body, and he demanded perfection from himself. (x x x) (i.e. his obsession for his work and drive for perfection as a painter made him demanding and harsh towards his subjects, not his pure hatred of women).

Conclusions: So by many accounts, Degas was not particularly fond of women, and had little regard for his dancers. But the claims that he must have slept with the ballerina's and been a patron/customer "because that's what all men did back then" are not backed by any evidence. only evidence to the contrary. I went in on Picasso because those that were close to him have written first-hand accounts of his monstrocity. This is not the case with Degas. So, while I didn't tear him down like I did Picasso, I wasn't lauding him as a saint either. I highly recommend reading the article called Degas's Misogyny by Norma Broude which details the ways in which modern times have run away with this idea of Degas being a sadistic woman-hater and how we've gotten to this point. Anyway, TLDR; I was aware of the dark "underside" of the Paris Ballet at the time in which Degas was painting his works. Do I think he is Jack the Ripper and a man who participated in ballerina prostitution? No, not at all. At the end of the day, I am just an art history girl, telling anyone who will listen that there is not enough documentation on Degas to take these claims as 100% truth, or put that man up there with Picasso. Peace and Love! <3

[crushedsweets]

The way I interpreted Toby’s “creepypasta name” being Ticci Toby was that being the name the media gave him. Like Jack the Ripper. Maybe after he killed his dad and was suspected of murder, so people who knew him from school were bound to get interviewed and the name gets around . . . That’s mostly how I interpret all of them. Like I don’t really think Jeff walked around like “heh… call me… JEFF THE KILLER!!!!” Or Jack formally requests people call him eyeless jack LOL

I am curious on how other people think abt it cuz I’ve seen people say that was him trying to reclaim it as his own, or in general using it as something he chose to go by rather than something that was stuck on him. It’s a shitty name but that’s kind of the point in a sense …?!! Dunno

[yuna-greecks]

Many people already talked about how it must have been to be a random person in NBC Hannibal. And what Will went through.

Like okay the opera is closed today because a human instrument was found there.

No horse riding today, a woman was found in a dead horse's womb.

The well liked and renowned psychiatrist is actually a cannibalistic serial killer.

But how must it have been for Miriam Lass.

First she gets caught by the Chesapeake Ripper and doesn't know what is happening to her. After two years she's found and told that they still have not found this Killer. Then she has to identify two possible suspects and is certain that the one couldn't have been it. But the other for sure. Then in panic she shoots the person she thinks is the Chesapeake Ripper and supposedly kills him. Then some weeks later, Miriam might be somewhere else, a psychiatric hospital for people with PTSD or so, and she thinks that she is safe now. But plot twist, the person who she was sure was not the Ripper, turns out to be in fact the Killer.

And he possibly killed Jack, a trained and professional FBI Agent and her mentor. The psychiatrist woman she possibly talked to (Alana). And the FBI profiler, who was framed for murder by the Chesapeake Ripper but actually was innocent.

And now this monster, that held her hostage for two years, messed with her brain and memory is on the run.

So now Miriam doesn't know what he is going to do. Is he going to kill her. Are Jack and the others going to survive. Did she kill an innocent man?

[defectivevillain]

this winding labyrinth, ch7

chapter seven: survival

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

summary:

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

this is chapter 7, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapters 1-6, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

warnings: nightmares, drowning; canon-typical blood, violence, gore, & death. y'all know the drill by now, i think.

If your dreams were vivid before, you’re not even sure how to describe them now. The moment you close your eyes, you’re transported somewhere else. Suddenly, you’re walking with bare feet on muddy soil when wrists shoot out of the damp earth, grabbing onto your ankles and yanking you back through dirt until you fall down next to a decaying corpse… 

Then you’re swimming through a sea of broken glass, every movement burying shards further into your skin. Your blood slips through the fragments, a crimson bubbling sea rising around you until you’re being pulled under by the ferocious current… 

…You’re restrained on an autopsy table, a surgeon making an incision down your chest. Your chest aches, but you suspect the feeling isn’t just from the scalpel. Sure enough, you feel something clawing at your chest cavity and you lurch forward against the iron manacles forcing your wrists down. Claws prickle against your skin and, suddenly, a bright bird bursts from your chest and flies about the room… 

Then you’re standing across from Hannibal, as he stares at you from his confines. He presses his fingertips to the glass boundary and it crumbles to dust in the stale air. For a moment, when you blink, you see bloodstained antlers branching out from Hannibal’s head. When you blink again, he is standing impossibly closer. You’re screaming at yourself to move, run, but you’re entirely frozen. Just as he reaches out, there’s an impossibly loud blaring sound… 

You open your eyes to find yourself tangled in your bedsheets, your alarm making incessant noise. You reach out to grab your phone and turn off the alarm, before rubbing a hand over your face as you try to ground yourself to reality. These dreams of yours aren’t helping your sleep at all, and you sometimes find yourself staying up later in the foolish hopes of outrunning the horrors you know you’ll be met with when you close your eyes. 

There’s a buzzing sound ringing in your ears—an aftereffect of the dream. You clamp your hands over your ears, surprised that the effort actually dampens the sound. Then you glance at your nightstand and realize that your phone is ringing. You stare at it for a few moments in confusion, before groaning and picking it up. There’s an incoming call from Jack—you immediately accept and push yourself up to a sitting position, before bringing the phone to your ear. 

Jack neglects a greeting. “There was a murder,” he says. Immediately, all of the thoughts you’d been trying to push away—namely, the Tooth Fairy killings and your conversation with Hannibal—come flooding back. You take a short breath in. “A prisoner at Baltimore State Hospital died yesterday; he choked on his own tongue.”

Foreboding clings to your skin like a vice. Jack doesn’t need to provide any more detail, because you can already picture—with almost complete certainty—who the victim was. All you need to do is close your eyes and remember the disgusting feeling of saliva on your cheek, followed by the ice-cold shiver that ran down your spine as you saw the fury gleaming in the Ripper’s eyes. Just as you expect, Jack confirms that the victim was Miggs—the same inmate who you had that rather unpleasant interaction with but a few days ago. 

You’re lost for words. Thankfully, Jack isn’t expecting an answer from you. “Chilton wants you here,” he continues, a hint of annoyance creeping into his tone. “Now.” You’re still sitting in bed at this point—and Frederick Chilton isn’t exactly a person you’d rush out of bed to assist. 

“Tell him I’ll be there this afternoon,” you answer after a moment’s contemplation. You have plans to visit Abigail today—which you refuse to reschedule. Plus, you need to review the case files and autopsy reports before returning to the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. “And if that’s not soon enough… then too bad.” Chilton isn’t your boss—Jack Crawford is. And you know Jack has far more pressing issues than a house call from a hospital administrator. 

Your suspicions are correct, because Jack doesn’t argue. “Got it.” The call ends and you groan, rubbing a hand over your face roughly in an attempt to fight off your exhaustion. It’s a bit earlier than you intended to be awake, but you know you won’t be able to fall asleep again. Conceding defeat, you brush your teeth and get dressed before heading out to the kitchen for a light breakfast. 

Not long after, you find yourself taking notes on what you know of the Tooth Fairy so far as you sit on your back porch, wind whipping at your skin. The cigarette dangling between your fingers is a small comfort, and it doesn’t provide nearly enough warmth as you desire. Even as you try to focus on the imminent threat—the Tooth Fairy—all you can think about is your interaction with Hannibal. You should have known that he would aim to harm Miggs. Indeed, that vicious snarl on Hannibal’s face was indicative of what was to come. You should’ve fucking known. Then, maybe another person wouldn’t be dead. Then, maybe you wouldn’t be sitting on your porch with this selfish guilt crawling around in your chest. You have no right to be guilty—you practically allowed that murder to happen.

…Right? 

You’ve caught yourself getting stuck in that mindset rather often recently. Your psyche loves to assign you the guilt and award you the responsibility. Sometimes, you know it’s deserved. But, in cases like this—in situations like the murder of Miggs, where you were just a bystander—you feel like you’re giving yourself too much credit. 

There’s only so much time you can spend mulling over the details of the Tooth Fairy killings and refreshing your memory before you find yourself growing agitated. You’re buzzing with restless energy, your foot tapping against the deck impatiently. Your thought process has grinded to a halt; the just barely visible trail has now gone cold. It’s frustrating to have so little information on this killer, especially when you know exactly when he will kill next. You feel as if you’re just fighting against the inevitable, at this point. But murder should never be inevitable. The BAU needs to find a way to get this guy behind bars. 

You shake your head and push yourself to your feet, collecting your materials into a relatively coherent pile and moving back inside. The sky is looking a bit overcast, and you’d rather not have raindrops scattered across the files. Besides, it’s nearly time for your visit with Abigail, you realize as you look down at your watch. 

You’ve been visiting her off and on since the encounter with her father in their home—since he sliced his daughter’s throat and stared right through you, those eerie, dusty green eyes pinning you in place with ease-

Safe to say, your memories of Garret Jacob Hobbs still aren’t buried, even after so many years. He’s the first of the many voices sounding in the cacophony of your mind. 

You push thoughts of the murderer aside and walk up the path towards the building. You sign in with the receptionist and walk over to the waiting area, taking a seat on the couch. It doesn’t take long before Abigail makes an appearance, and the two of you exchange greetings before you walk outside, settling on one of the benches under a willow tree. The wind rustles through the leaves and there’s a slight chill to the air, but it’s far from unpleasant. You place your hands on your knees and try to pretend as if you aren’t feeling tense. You’re here to speak with Abigail—you can abandon thoughts of bloodstains and corpses until you leave. 

For a few minutes, Abigail and you sit on the bench in companionable silence. You get the feeling that Abigail is trying to figure out her next words, and your instinct is proven correct when she breaks the silence moments later. “I’ve been placed into a foster home,” she reveals. 

You raise your eyebrows and try to study her reaction. She doesn’t exactly look thrilled. Actually, on second thought, Abigail looks as if she wants to be happy—but she’s preventing herself from being hopeful. You suppose that’s a normal reaction, for someone who’s been through what she’s been through. “That’s wonderful news, Abigail,” you say with a smile. The smile on her face flickers and you frown. “What’s the matter?”

Abigail sighs, clasping her hands in her lap. She is being uncharacteristically evasive. You decide to be patient and wait for her to gather her composure. Eventually, she takes a deep breath. “I… I’m scared.” The admission seems to take a lot out of her. She’s avoiding your gaze now, staring ahead at the building she’s been practically trapped in since she woke from her coma. 

“What are you scared of?” you hum, genuinely curious. You don’t want to patronize her, so you try to ensure that your expression is as open and honest as possible. 

Abigail is silent for a bit. “Disappointing them,” she eventually admits. You try to digest that confession. “And I feel like… I don’t deserve this. After everything I’ve done…” Everything she has done, indeed. Abigail was not entirely innocent in her father’s crimes—and she was more than just complicit. She helped him source his victims, pretended to make friends with them so that they would let their guard down. Maybe that’s why you have formed such a kinship with Abigail: you both know cruelty; Abigail and you have both been victims and perpetrators. “What if they don’t like me?” Abigail whispers, so quietly you nearly convince yourself you imagine it.

Then you’re abruptly reminded that, above all, Abigail is still a young girl—practically a child. Your throat burns a little as you process her statement. “They’ll love you, Abigail,” you’re quick to reassure her. 

“What if they don’t?” Her voice cracks and your heart breaks a little. 

“Then you can make a break for it,” you respond with a dramatic wink. The remark successfully diffuses the tension that had been settling in the air and Abigail laughs. A small part of you wants to offer for her to stay with you, but you know that’s a foolish promise to make. You suppose it’s normal to want a family—every human craves connection, in one way or another… regardless of how that connection may manifest. But you’re not deluded enough to think that you have all the necessary tools to be a parental figure to Abigail. You’re busy enough fighting off your own demons. Abigail deserves a normal life, and you’re not able to give that to her. 

(Maybe, in another world, you would be able to provide her with a quiet, ordinary life and a loving home. Maybe, in this other world, you would have someone to share that responsibility with you—someone who cares about Abigail just as much as you, someone who would protect her with all the ferocity and compassion that she deserves. Someone like…)

Your thoughts are veering into dangerously fantastic territory. You shake your head and try to shift your focus back to the conversation, ignoring the deluded (but compelling) calls of domesticity and belonging. Ultimately, you have never belonged. And you don’t see that changing any time soon. 

“So… it may be a while before I see you again,” Abigail says, tearing you out of your reverie. You stare at her for a few moments. 

“That’s okay,” you then reassure her, upon seeing the guilt written all over his face. “You’ll be busy—going to school, hanging out with friends. You won’t even think about an old geezer like me.” You smile, hoping to cheer her up further. Your efforts seem to work, because a smile rises on her lips. 

“Shut up,” Abigail says with an amused huff. “That’s not true.” 

“It is true,” you say, a fond smile growing on your face. You hope she’ll be able to move on from all this and live a normal life: go to school; hang out with friends; and engage with her hobbies. You can only hope that Abigail’s father doesn’t haunt her mind the same way he haunts yours. “And I wouldn’t want anything less for you,” you maintain. 

A pleasant silence descends across the air once more. A gentle wind blows through the trees and Abigail sighs. You mimic the gesture and she smiles. You’re not sure how long the two of you remain seated in companionable silence before an orderly appears in the doorway of the building and taps her wrist, indicating that your time is almost up.

You dig your hands in your pockets and find the item you intended to give her, turning it over in your hand and hesitating for a moment. Abigail follows your gaze and looks at it. You realize it’s too late and take a deep breath, offering her the object. “If you ever need me,” you say pointedly. 

Abigail takes your business card and looks down at it, raising her eyebrows. “Ooh, how professional,” she teases. You roll your eyes. The orderly motions pointedly and a sudden sincerity stifles the air. “I’ll make sure to text you,” she promises, the resolute gleam in her eyes indicating that she will not go back on her word.

You stand up and she does the same, before turning towards you and reaching forward to hug you. There’s a kind of sadness lingering in her movements, in the unspoken way she tucks her head into your chest and stays there. It’s clear she’s still nervous about the whole foster parent affair, and you don’t blame her. “They’re going to love you,” you assert, resisting the uncharacteristic urge to ruffle her hair. 

“I hope so,” she murmurs against your shoulder. 

“They will,” you reassure her. They’d better, you think darkly. The two of you eventually break apart and Abigail regretfully traipses back to the building, leaving you to walk to your car with conflicting feelings of relief and stress. You get the feeling you’ll see Abigail again, but it may be a little while. You’ll be busy with work and she’ll be busy adjusting to a new lifestyle—a peaceful one. 

Overall, your visit with Abigail was a welcome distraction from everything going on; unfortunately, the moment you start your car and pull out of the parking lot, all of your anxieties come rushing back. You’re supposed to meet with Frederick Chilton. Supposedly, he wants to speak with you. You can only hope that your conversation won’t be centered around getting you to participate in a consultation appointment with him. 

And, to your immense fortune, Chilton doesn’t mention a consultation appointment once. Perhaps he’s finally accepted that you’re not interested in participating in a vulnerable conversation with him (or a conversation at all, if you’re being perfectly honest). Instead, he levels you with a wary gaze as you enter his office, his eyes tracking your every movement. You settle for standing in front of his desk with your hands shoved in your pockets. Admittedly, you’re feeling pretty restless—but you don’t want to give Chilton the satisfaction of knowing that. 

“You wanted to see me,” you prompt, after a few seconds pass and the administrator doesn’t make any move to address you.  

“I’m assuming Jack has briefed you,” he says, cutting right to the chase. You nod and he pinches the bridge of his nose. “The prisoner who died was Miggs… His cell was near Lecter’s.” You aren’t very surprised and the thought briefly makes you feel guilty, before you remember why exactly Miggs was imprisoned. “When I went to review the security footage, I noticed something interesting,” Chilton continues ambiguously.

The look on his face is nothing short of pure suspicion. You’re quickly losing patience with this circular conversation. “What?” you demand tersely. 

Chilton doesn’t seem surprised by your sudden rudeness. Instead he just exhales slowly, clasping his hands on his desk and looking at you with an unreadable expression. “There was an altercation between you and the victim,” he states. 

“Yes, he spit on me,” you recall, unable to hide your distaste. Chilton grimaces in sympathy. It’s a fleeting gesture—one that is performed for pretense, rather than out of genuine sentiment. Although, you’re sure he’s had similar experiences with prisoners—what with his position as the hospital’s head administrator. 

“Immediately after, you spoke to Lecter,” Chilton continues. This is just one of the numerous reasons you don’t like Frederick Chilton: when he has the opportunity to speak, he monopolizes it. He likes hearing the sound of his own voice, so he’ll go into painful and unnecessary detail for his own amusement. You always struggle with being patient in these moments, and right now is no exception. “Then, hours later, Miggs turns up dead. That seems like more than mere coincidence.”

You grit your teeth, catching the implications of his statement immediately. “You think that I spoke to Lecter and ordered him to kill Miggs?” you repeat, a little indignation seeping into your voice. You’re trying your best to remain calm, but it’s difficult when you’re being accused of a murder you didn’t commit. “Why would I do that?”

“Miggs spit on you, disrespected you,” Chilton answers. It’s an incredibly weak justification, and it almost looks as if he regrets uttering it. In your infinite generosity, you give him a few moments to take it back. But he doesn’t move to apologize or rescind his remark, so you’re forced to acknowledge it.

“My pride isn’t that easily wounded,” you scoff, crossing your arms over your chest. “I think you know I didn’t sic Lecter on him just for a simple discourtesy.” 

“Men have been killed for far less.” That may be true, but you wouldn’t kill someone over a small act of disrespect. You want to think you wouldn’t kill at all, but you’re afraid it’s a bit too late for that. Your victims cackle in your ears, reminding you of your cruelty and hypocrisy. 

Chilton is staring at you expectantly. You remember that it’s your turn to respond. “Yes, it’s probable that Lecter killed Miggs,” you acquiesce. “But I didn’t ask him to do that.” He did it of his own accord, you know. Arguably even more frightening. 

“Even so…” Chilton breaks off. 

“Just stop,” you interject, before he can hurl any more unfounded conjecture at you. “You’re grasping at straws here. Not to mention, if you checked the security footage, you would know that I left the building after that encounter. There’s no way I would’ve been able to get back in and have another conversation with Hannibal.” You don’t notice the slip until you see Chilton raise a brow, and you’re quick to continue speaking. “Besides, if you wanted to know what he said to me, you could’ve just asked.” You suspect that’s been the prime motivator for this conversation. Chilton likely knows that you didn’t commit the murder—he’s just trying to lead you into a verbal trap in which you reveal details of your conversation. 

“Very well,” Chilton acknowledges with a gesture of mock-surrender. “What did he say to you? The footage shows you about to leave, before you return to Lecter for a few moments.” He recalls, glancing at his computer before looking at you again. 

“He was calling my name,” you remember. “I went back.” I’m not sure why, you neglect to say. “He asked me if Miggs spit on me. I told him that he did. He said it was discourteous. I told him it would be fine.”

“And then?” Chilton asks, practically leaning forward in interest. 

You smile. “Then I walked away,” you answer. 

Chilton visibly droops and you just barely manage to hold back a laugh. Honestly, you can’t believe he had the audacity to try to play mind games with you. You’re a criminal profiler and investigator—you’ve spoken to far more dangerous personalities and have manipulated people far more threatening than Frederick Chilton. The fact that he thought, even for a moment, that he could talk circles around you is insulting—and it speaks to his towering ego. 

“Now, I want to speak to Lecter,” you assert. I’m not letting this visit be a complete waste of time, you think to yourself. You’re already here—you might as well try to squeeze some more answers out of Hannibal. Will you actually get any valuable information? Probably not. But you won’t know unless you try. At least, that’s how you try to justify it to yourself. The voices don’t like that justification, though—Franklyn whispers that you’re just like him, that you just crave his full attention-

“Knock yourself out,” Chilton sighs dejectedly, tossing you his keys. You’re roughly torn out of your thoughts and you just barely manage to catch them, surprised that he’s trusting you with his keys after he just finished accusing you of murder. Your thoughts must show on your face, because Chilton just shakes his head in disbelief. “It’s been a long day.”

You decide to leave it at that and leave his office, heading downstairs and pacing down the hall lined with iron bars and dehumanizing cages. The prisoners aren’t nearly as rowdy as they’ve been in the past, and you think you make it all the way to the final door before Hannibal’s cell without being harassed or insulted. That might just be a record, you think to yourself wryly as you unlock the security door with Chilton’s keys and shut it behind you. Immediately, your eyes aren’t drawn to Hannibal—but to another cell. 

Miggs’ cell is empty. There’s a sizable chunk taken from the toilet (evidently, that’s what he threw at you). More worrying, however, is the rather large, light pink stain marring the floor. It’s clear a janitor was tasked with mopping up all the blood that Miggs left behind. Unfortunately, it doesn’t seem like all of the blood came out. You shake your head and rip your eyes away, that familiar nausea prickling at the back of your throat. 

When you settle in front of Hannibal’s cell, you realize that something is different. Hannibal is seated at his writing desk, staring down at the cracked wood as if it holds invaluable secrets. He looks up when you take another step, but you’re too busy looking at the empty shelves behind him. Consulting your memory, you realize that his books aren’t crowding the shelves anymore. 

“Where are your books?” is somehow the first question that leaves your lips. Hannibal clearly doesn’t expect the question, because he blinks for a few moments before helplessly quirking his lips as he turns to face you. “Chilton took them?” you ask before he can answer. 

“Yes,” Hannibal nods. The irritation that is normally hidden behind layers of his mask almost seems to froth and bubble over, spilling over his frame and tightening his posture. He clasps his hands on the desk and stares at you, studying you. You’ve gotten used to the feeling of being shoved under a microscope and relentlessly examined with attentive eyes, yet it doesn’t fail to unnerve you. 

“I’ll speak to him,” you suggest after a few moments. Getting Hannibal his books back may help him to trust you, which could prove beneficial in the long run. But that’s not the real reason you’re offering, is it? “In the meantime—” you try to continue. 

“Will you really?” Hannibal interjects, staring at you scrupulously. There is little emotion in his voice—no sign of hope or gratitude. The statement is spoken with an entire lack of substance. Perhaps captivity is slowly eating away at the man. Somehow, you doubt it. 

“Yes, I will,” you promise before you can consider the consequences. Why did you do that? Somehow, you felt pressured to agree—and Hannibal hadn’t even formed any expectations for you to do so. You just volunteered to speak to Chilton on his behalf… entirely of your own accord. And that troubles you. You thought you were maintaining a professional distance, but your actions are speaking to something deeper. 

“I would be grateful,” Hannibal says. “There is little to do in this cell.”

Now you’re feeling guilty. You’re falling prey to his mind games, knowingly, yet you aren’t doing anything about it. You are an entirely willing deer prancing about near a lion’s den. “Books keep the mind at bay, I’m sure,” you murmur. You’re speaking before thinking and it shows. “Anyway, that’s not what I came for—”

Hannibal inexplicably gets up from his seat and you flinch. He paces towards the glass barrier, until he is a mere two or three feet from you. Then he inhales through his nostrils. The man’s brows furrow and his expression turns pinched. “You smell of smoke,” Hannibal remarks astutely. His eyes flit up and down your form, likely looking for evidence of your new habit. 

“I’m surprised you didn’t notice sooner,” you say guardedly. Indeed, from what you remember, he has always had a keen sense of smell. That primarily manifested in him making those eerie types of comments, but you also noticed his nose scrunch at unpleasant scents when he thought no one was looking. 

“I noticed the moment you approached the glass, before our most recent conversation,” Hannibal confesses. You frown. “I dismissed it as a once-off occurrence… It appears I was incorrect.”

Silence. You don’t know what to say. Hannibal seems content to let the silence drag on painfully, as he just stares wordlessly. Just when you’re growing to be a little too uncomfortable, he breaks through the quiet air. “Tell me, do you enjoy the thought of lung cancer?” He hums lightly. 

You don’t bother dignifying that statement with a response, instead burying your hands further into your jacket pockets. Your fingers find the steadfast cold metal of your lighter and you take a deep breath. A cough is building in your throat and you tilt your head to the side and cough into the crook of your elbow. You don’t need to look at Hannibal to know that he’s staring at you with a knowing expression, but you find your gaze pulled back to him (as it always is). You’re instantly surprised by the sight of Hannibal frowning at you. You were certain he would take pride in foreseeing your suffering, but instead, he looks concerned. Surely you must be seeing things. 

“Does it bring you solace?” Hannibal breathes. You don’t need to ask him to elaborate, but he does anyway. “Burning yourself from the inside out, that is.” Admittedly, you have thought about that before. A part of you, however small, does take solace in the fact that your new smoking habit is slowly destroying your lungs, rendering them entirely inedible to a cannibal. Maybe this is just a small delusion you’ve allowed yourself—one fleeting act of resistance against a never-ending, surging tide. 

The Chesapeake Ripper is waiting for an answer. Inwardly, you find amusement in the realization that, out of all the things you’ve done, smoking is what bothers Hannibal. You have done far more cruel, dangerous, and self-sabotaging things—but this is where he draws the line. Once a doctor, always a doctor. 

“I’ve grown used to the flames,” you mutter. 

He doesn’t find your answer satisfactory. That much is clear, from the way his lips are pulled tight in a thin line to the disappointment lingering in all that remains unspoken between you. “And to addiction?” Hannibal asks. His presence before you now is one big contradiction: his words are non-confrontational, yet there is a combative desire written in the harsh lines that sew him together. 

“You’re not my doctor,” you snap, with a bit more bite than usual. You take a deep breath and rub a hand over your face roughly, shaking your head in disbelief. Hannibal remains entirely enigmatic—too unpredictable for your liking. One moment, he’s murdering an inmate; the next, he’s attempting to warn you off of smoking. These interactions never fail to give you whiplash. 

“Very well,” Hannibal acquiesces, clearly sensing that he won’t get more information about your harmful coping mechanisms. Before you can get in another word edgewise, Hannibal is continuing to speak. “Send in Dr. Chilton, will you?” You’re being effectively dismissed. Somehow, you feel humiliated. This entire time, you were foolish enough to think that you were controlling the conversation, that you were the one with the power. But that was never the case. Your presence, your existence behind these nondescript walls was always his to dictate. 

“Sure,” you respond through gritted teeth, cursing yourself for letting your guard down. You turn on your heel and walk away, very tempted to ignore his farewell. You eventually settle for throwing a wave over your shoulder as you depart, lost in thought. 

You come back to yourself as you’re standing in Chilton’s office. You blink dazedly and look around you, confused as to how you got here. You don’t remember walking back through the halls, but you must’ve—otherwise you’d still be standing in front of Hannibal. You rub at your eyes roughly and try to collect your composure, painfully aware of Chilton staring daggers into you as you stand there. He’s nearly vibrating in curiosity; unfortunately for him, it takes you a few minutes to regain the ability to speak. 

“He’s asking for you,” you finally utter. Chilton nods and steps out of his office. You stand frozen in the doorway until you hear the doors to the hall shut behind him. Then, as if possessed, you move to his desk and look down at his computer screen, which is focused on the surveillance camera feed for Hannibal’s cell. For a few minutes, Hannibal remains seated at his desk in solitude. Then, Chilton appears in the hall. The camera feed is slightly grainy and there’s no audio, but you try your best to ascertain what’s happening from their nonverbal gestures and posture. 

“I need to speak to Jack Crawford,” Hannibal says.  

“And why should I listen to you?” Chilton scoffs. Chilton is standing at least a foot away from the glass wall. You’re starting to think the administrator has a bit of a complex when it comes to Hannibal. Now that the Ripper is behind bars, Chilton is foolishly convinced that he is the one who holds the power. But Hannibal’s surrender was tactical, and you’re almost certain that he has something more up his sleeve. 

Hannibal doesn’t respond, instead staring at him silently. It’s abundantly clear that the man isn’t very fond of Chilton. 

“Fine,” Chilton responds. “But don’t expect to be getting your books back any time soon,” he adds.  

You’re left to speculate on the nature of their conversation, and you’re forced to make your escape once you notice Chilton leaving. You manage to make it out of the building before he returns, thankfully. As you drive home, you can’t help but think about the interaction you just witnessed. While you don’t know what the two men discussed, you do know that Hannibal will likely get his way. 

And indeed, he does. Unbeknownst to you, within three hours, Jack Crawford is standing before Hannibal Lecter’s enclosure with an annoyed pull to his lips. Moreover, the next time you visit Hannibal, you will notice that all of his books have been returned to him—in addition to the toilet seat and his drawings, which were both removed as punishments. These occurrences will serve as yet another reminder of the power Hannibal holds. He is no ordinary prisoner—no ordinary killer, no ordinary man. 

“You are far from ordinary,” Hannibal had told you once. Even now, years later and separated by a seemingly impenetrable wall of glass, his voice echoes down the halls of your mind palace and slips right past your defenses. You spend the rest of the evening trying to suppress old memories.

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