#alternative hannibal conversations

[ficnation]

Chapter 10: The Big Bad Wolf

Series: “Eat Your Heart Out” Pairing: Hannibal Lecter x Female! Reader x Will Graham Word count: 5,0k+ Warnings: canon-typical warnings, canon divergence, gore A/n: I hope you enjoy it just as much as I did. This is also a bday present for my friend. Happy birthday!!! Don't freak out <3 Main Masterlist || Hannibal Masterlist

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“Every social worker enjoys certain aspects of the job more than others,” the man explains with a smile that seems almost too forced; it’s been glued to his face since the moment Alana greeted him. “There are cases that you reach and cases you don’t reach.”

You spin the pen between your fingers with a steady rhythm, your mind wandering and tuning in and out of the conversation between Clark Ingram and Alana Bloom. But something about his demeanor strikes you—the way his bright smile seems permanently plastered on his face. It’s off-putting, unnatural, as if he’s struggling to maintain the facade of a polite and helpful citizen.

“Peter’s had persistent cognitive problems. Confusion, paranoia, rage.”

“Peter’s a sheep,” you mutter to no one in particular. “He can’t hurt an animal, let alone a human being.”

“You really like sheep, don’t you?” Jack jokes, reminding you of your choice of words from not long ago.

You look at him with a raised brow before nudging him in the arm with your elbow. “And you don’t? At least sheep don’t bite.”

Jack chuckles at your retort, but his expression quickly turns serious as he turns his attention back to Clark Ingram. “So, what do you think, Agent Avant? Is Peter Bernardone capable of violence?”

You pause, considering the question carefully. “It’s hard to say,” you reply, your tone measured. “But based on what we know so far, it doesn’t seem likely. His cognitive issues suggest a lack of capacity for such brutal acts. If he was ever violent toward anyone, it’s likely he was pushed to his limits and lashed out.”

Will and Hannibal stand to your left, listening intently to the conversation between you and Jack, as well as the one taking place on the other side of the thick one-way mirror. Their expressions are unreadable, betraying little of what they might be thinking or feeling.

They’re silent until the moment when Alana reaches out to touch Ingram’s hand. The social worker does nothing to hide his discomfort as he quickly shifts his hands away and leans further into his chair.

“That’s smart,” Will explains, hands tucked into the pockets of his pants. “She keeps pushing him on his feelings, not on the facts.”

Hannibal nods in agreement, his gaze focused on the interaction between Alana and Ingram. He casts a fleeting glance in your direction every now and then, his eyes catching your presence in his peripheral vision before returning to the scene before him.

“She’s trying to gauge how comfortable he is with emotion, if he has any,” Will adds, glancing at you too, curious to know your thoughts. “He couldn’t bear being touched by her.”

“It’s a telling reaction,” you remark, your voice calm and measured. “It suggests a deep-seated discomfort with emotional intimacy. Perhaps indicative of a psychopath?”

“Yes, his responses are typical of psychopaths during interviews, but could also indicate resentment,” Hannibal agrees.

“No, I don’t believe it’s resentment or hatred towards women,” you assert, your tone firm. Your eyes narrow thoughtfully.

“No, his eyes are dead,” Will concludes. “He’s a predator.”

“It’s the absence of empathy, of any real connection to the people around him. That’s what makes him dangerous.” You glance over at your husband, seeking confirmation or perhaps an alternative perspective, he acknowledges your words with a nod of his head.

The conversation between Ingram and Alana continues for a while longer, but your mind is too preoccupied to fully focus. You’re aware of their words, but your thoughts are elsewhere. You can’t shake the feeling that Ingram is hiding something. It’s the way he recoils from her touch, the way he conceals himself behind smiles and warm words. There’s an eerie resemblance to your father that sends chills down your spine; something in his demeanor triggers warning bells, a deep and primal instinct for danger.

You attempt to refocus on the conversation, but Ingram’s subtle gestures and body language keep drawing your attention. There’s something sinister about him, a feeling that resonates deep within your bones.

Suddenly, Jack’s voice pierces through the room, pulling you away from your thoughts. “Let him go,” he commands.

The panic in Will’s eyes prompts you to react, and you turn towards your boss with an annoyed expression. “Jack, don’t do that. You know he’s the one.”

“I’ve got nothing to hold him on,” Jack responds calmly.

“We can still get something out of him,” you insist, your eyes pleading. You couldn’t care less about the killer on the other side of the glass, but it’s evident that Will is invested in this case.

“Peter Bernardone is psychologically disadvantaged. He’s been manipulated,” Will argues, his hands clenching into fists by his sides. “As his social worker, this man is in a position of trust, and he has betrayed that trust.”

The realization hits you like a brick—this is personal. In a twisted, complicated way, this is no longer about catching the man responsible for killing sixteen women in cold blood. It might not even be about Peter anymore. The next sentence coming out of Will’s mouth confirms it.

“I know what it’s like to point at a killer and have no one listen.”

“You pointed in the wrong direction.” It’s all Jack says before leaving the room.

Your gaze instantly finds your husband’s face—his expression a mix of disbelief and powerlessness. You reach for his hand, and he doesn’t resist at all as you squeeze it reassuringly, nails gripping into his skin to keep his mind in the room with you and Hannibal. God, Hannibal. You almost forgot about his presence beside you with how quiet he’s become.

“We won’t let Peter Bernardone suffer for all of this, Will,” you assure him. It’s all you can offer—a useless promise that you might not be able to fulfill.

You find yourself in the BAU’s headquarters not long after, walking through the almost-empty corridors leading toward Crawford’s office. You can’t shake your husband’s heartbroken expression from your mind. It lingers hauntingly in the back of your thoughts, refusing to be forgotten.

The atmosphere is uncomfortably quiet, with only the echo of your footsteps breaking the silence as you make your way through the corridor. Your focus is consumed by the folder in your hands, flipping through its pages absentmindedly for at least half an hour. The world around you becomes a misty haze as you try to concentrate on the contrasting words printed on the white paper.

Suddenly, you’re snapped back to reality as someone grabs you by the arm and forcefully pulls you into the nearest room. The sequence of events unfolds so rapidly that it’s all just a massive blur.

“Hey, what the hell!” You react instinctively, swinging blindly at your assailant. Your hands make contact with their face, nails poised dangerously close to their eyes. It’s not the most efficient form of self-defense, but your reflexes have dulled since you’ve been out of the field.

As your vision clears, you recognize those dark, menacing eyes, though you’ve never seen them so up-close before. Their gaze is hypnotizing, compelling you to loosen your grip on their jaw. Despite the danger, you can’t bring yourself to let go entirely.

“It’s just me,” Hannibal’s voice cuts through the tension, tranquil and unaffected by the threat of your fingers near his eyes. His hands grip your elbows firmly, though not painfully, as he meets your panicked stare head-on.

“Why did you grab me like that?” you question him, a hint of vexation in your tone, though you notice how soft his skin feels under your palms.

“Do you prefer a gentler approach?” Hannibal responds calmly, his demeanor unruffled.

You blink slowly, confusion replacing your initial anger. You glance around the empty conference room behind him. “Why are we here?”

Hannibal’s grip on you loosens slightly as he looks over his shoulder before acknowledging your question. It appears he only just became aware of your location himself. “Coincidence.”

Hannibal’s eyes find yours again, and you both stare at each other in silence, unmoving. The tension between you is palpable, each moment stretched taut like a drawn bowstring. You’re not even sure if either of you is breathing, but you can still detect the faint fragrance of his cologne—notes of leather, cedarwood, and a hint of something darker and more mysterious, perhaps oud. The stillness of the air crackles with anticipation, and your shared curiosity poses the question: “who moves first?”

“Would it be rude of me to ask you to release me?” he finally breaks the tension, his tone almost reluctant, as if he secretly wished you would hold onto him a little longer.

You release him, albeit with some apprehension. “You wanted to see how I handle sudden threats, huh?” Your words are more of a statement than a question, delivered with a certainty that seeks confirmation.

“Yes,” he replies simply, catching you off guard with his honesty. It’s almost unnerving how straightforward his answer is.

You watch as a tiny smile quirks one corner of his mouth, the faintest twitch of his lips. It’s as if he was born to be intimidating yet effortlessly charming at the same time. Everything he does seems so well thought-through to the point of being eerie.

“And what conclusion did you reach?” you ask, striving to keep your voice steady. There’s an undercurrent of tension flowing between the two of you, and you can feel his eyes scrutinizing you, taking in every detail.

“More of a confirmation, really,” he replies, his gaze traveling from your face to your hands and back.

You know he noticed your hesitation before you let go of him. You know he’s still analyzing you, taking in every detail, every little movement you make. You can feel his eyes weighing you, measuring every ounce of your reaction, your breath, and your pulse.

“You reacted almost instinctively,” he concludes, not asking a question or suggesting that he expected anything less from you. “It’s a sign of strength.”

You can’t tell if he’s being serious or just saying that to be polite, and you feel compelled to challenge him on that statement, so you do: “And what would’ve been a sign of weakness then?”

“Not fighting back,” he replies simply, his eyes never leaving yours. “Not putting up a fight.”

Your mind struggles to process his answer. “So, what you’re saying is that someone showing weakness by letting themselves be attacked and possibly killed is worse than someone who reacts and fights back?” you reply, not hiding your disbelief at his words.

His response is almost immediate. “Precisely.”

You almost laugh at the straightforwardness of his reply. His words are as chilling as his demeanor. You want to challenge him, to call him out for his bluntness. But you can’t summon the energy, and your gaze falls away.

“What if someone doesn’t have it in them to fight back?” you ask, curious to see how he’ll respond. “Maybe they’re not capable of it.”

He considers the question for a moment, seeming to weigh a myriad of variables in his mind before giving you an answer. “The instinct for self-preservation is primal, ingrained in every living being. It doesn’t matter if they don’t have the physical ability to fight back; the urge to live overrides everything. Even a child will fight when pushed against the wall. Only the weak would let themselves be slaughtered without at least attempting to survive.”

You feel almost appalled by his words, their harshness sinking in. There’s a hint of sadness in your voice as you ask, “So you believe someone who doesn’t fight back is weak?”

“I don’t believe it, I know it,” he replies with a coldness you’ve never seen in his eyes before, a spark of something dark igniting in his pupils.

He’s serious, there’s no underlying joke or hidden meaning behind his words. You feel a chill run through you, the tiny hairs on your arms standing on end.

Hannibal raises his hand toward your face, dragging his knuckles over the skin of your jaw. He seems almost impressed that you don’t flinch at his touch.

“You’re as strong as they come, my dear,” he murmurs, his voice so low it almost blends with the hum of the wind outside the windows. He leans in, his soft lips pressing against your forehead, and then he leaves the room without another word.

You’re left there alone and stunned, your eyes staring ahead but not really seeing. Your body trembles, but instead of pure fear, there’s a hint of excitement running through your veins. Adrenaline rushes through you, and the feeling of his presence lingers in the air, both comforting and unsettling.

You wait in the conference room for a few minutes, trying to collect yourself, half-hoping that Hannibal will return. You feel like you’ve just been through a whirlwind of emotions, thoughts, and sensations.

But all you’re left with is the memory of his scent lingering in the room and the soft touch of his lips on your skin.

“You look like a man who has suffered an irrevocable loss,” Hannibal’s voice breaks through the quiet melody of the aria playing in the car. The psychiatrist’s choice in music doesn’t surprise Will in the slightest; he’s gotten used to his refined tastes.

“I’m trying to prevent one,” Will counters, gazing over his shoulder at your sleeping form curled up in the backseat.

“You look so peaceful—far more relaxed than he imagined you would be. Hell, just ten minutes ago the thought of you sleeping in the presence of Hannibal Lecter didn’t even cross his mind. It was different from the last time; this time you didn’t have anything to drink or soothe you—nothing. You just let your guard down so easily as if you didn’t see a threat in Hannibal anymore. Will didn’t like that at all.

“Do you think if you save Peter Bernardone, you can save yourself?” Hannibal’s voice breaks the silence, his words carrying weight in the confined space of the car.

“Save myself from what, Dr. Lecter?” Will asks, his eyes staring ahead yet again, but there’s a hint of annoyance in his voice—barely detectable.

“From who you perceive me to be,” the psychiatrist responds, his eyes briefly leaving the road to glance at you through the rearview mirror. Will swears he sees a subtle quirk of the man’s mouth at the sight of you.

“I’m afraid I need to be saved from who you perceive me to be.”

“Many troublesome behaviors strike when you are uncertain of yourself,” Hannibal observes, his focus returning to Will. Perhaps he senses he’s been caught. “Peter Bernardone lies in the same darkness that holds you.”

“No, I’m alone in that darkness,” Will replies without hesitation.

“You’re not alone, Will. You have me and her, standing right beside you through all of this.”

Will’s eyes find your figure again, and he bites the inside of his cheek, lost in thought. “I’m not sure if I want her to be. I don’t want to scare her off.”

“You won’t, Will. She’s not going anywhere, trust me.” Hannibal reaches for the other man and squeezes his arm gently—it’s strangely comforting, though it shouldn’t be.

When you reach Peter’s place, it’s eerily empty. All of the cages have been left open—no animal in sight. You can’t imagine the agony Clark Ingram must have put him through. The sight breaks your heart into a million pieces because you know Peter Bernardone has been pushed to his limit.

The three of you rush toward the stables, ready for the worst. Will is panicking inside and out, his hands trembling and breath coming out in shaky puffs of air, while you and Hannibal remain fairly composed. The contrast in your behaviors is visible from miles away.

As you find Peter, he’s kneeling on the ground beside the body of a dark-coated horse, his work nearly finished. The needle slides through the animal’s skin effortlessly, like gliding through soft butter.

Will is the first to break the silence as he steps toward the kneeling man slowly, with apprehension evident in his movements. “Peter…” he whispers hoarsely, his eyes glued to the sight of the blood-soaked animal before him.

The scene takes a while for your mind to process. The image of that defenseless horse lying lifeless on the stable floor, the smell of blood lingering in the air along with the subtle scent of death. All of you already know what has happened here—it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.

Hannibal catches your gloved hand in his and pulls you closer to himself. You feel his steady presence beside you, a calming force amid the turmoil. His touch is unexpected, yet it speaks volumes.

“Is your social worker in that horse?”

“Yes. I used to have a horrible fear of…” Peter speaks up, his voice trembling slightly but not out of fear. “Of hurting anything.”

You glance at Hannibal to gauge his reaction to the situation, but instead, you find him already looking at you—his eyes filled with a strange admiration. You were right after all; Peter couldn’t hurt a fly unless he was pushed to his limits.

Weirdly enough, this twisted reverence makes you feel just a little bit sick to your stomach. You shuffle forward, seeking proximity to Will and distancing yourself from Hannibal, forcing him to release his grip on your hand.

“But… He helped me get over that. Feels so abnormal.” Peter lets out a pitiful chuckle, tears rolling down his bony cheeks.

“An abnormal reaction to an abnormal situation is normal behavior,” Hannibal concludes, his eyes now cold and distant. You’re unsure whether it’s due to the situation before you or your withdrawal from his affectionate touch.

“I think he deserves to die,” the kneeling man says, his voice filled with helplessness as he looks between the three of you.

“He does,” you mumble, more to yourself than anyone else. You’re relieved when there’s no immediate reaction to your words, but the way Hannibal’s eyes bore into your back tells you he heard.

“But you didn’t deserve to kill him, Peter,” Will says, shaking his head. He crouches beside the man, offering a reassuring hand that rests gently on his back as Peter stares at the dead horse. “I want you to come with me.”

You and Will help the man stand up as his legs shake, threatening to give up beneath him. Only now do you see how much damage this situation has done to the poor guy. He didn’t deserve any of this, but the world has always been a cruel place—evil humans’ second nature.

When Will and Peter head toward the barn door, you and Hannibal linger behind. Will’s uncertain, but not worried glance your way is a testament that something has shifted between the three of you. You just have to figure out what.

“Cruelly poetic,” you say, standing a safe distance away from the man and the corpse.

“He’ll be just fine,” Hannibal murmurs in response to your statement as he watches Peter and Will slowly make their way out of the stable. His gaze is calculatingly cold, the smallest twitch of a muscle in his cheek betraying the emotions underneath—the genuine emotions he rarely lets others see.

“It was necessary,” he adds softly. “He needed to rid himself of that darkness within.”

“Necessary?” you question, your eyes still glued to the two men walking away and not the psychiatrist standing before you.

Hannibal’s eyes move from Peter and Will to you, the corner of his mouth twitching into a slight smirk. You feel like he’s expecting you to say something more, but you can’t think of anything to reply.

“Necessary,” he repeats, and now his eyes find yours with that same calculating stare.

“The way you view life and the world itself... It’s peculiar,” you notice, sticking your hands into the pockets of your coat.

Hannibal’s gaze never leaves yours, and he doesn’t reply at first. There’s a slight smirk playing on the corners of his mouth again, and for a brief moment, you wonder if he’s judging you or if he agrees.

“I find my way of viewing life perfectly reasonable,” he finally says quietly, the words almost whispered. You notice a small twitch of the muscles beneath his eyes, and you wonder if you said the right thing or not.

“You do?” you ask, still searching for his gaze, but you can tell that he’s no longer looking at you. He’s staring at something in the distance instead then heading toward one of the stalls that holds white sheep.

“In life, we need some form of guidance to help us navigate the unknown,” he adds quietly as he pets the woolly animals. They’re not afraid of him. “I’ve found mine. What about you?”

Before you have a chance to respond, you notice Clark Ingram’s bloody fingers, ripping the stitches on the dead horse’s stomach. He tears through them from within, letting the guts spill out of the corpse as he crawls out of it.

Hannibal strolls toward him so casually, his hands dipped into the pockets of his perfectly pressed pants as he looks at the man’s struggle. You join him by his side as an involuntary smirk crawls up your face at the sight of the social worker coughing out blood and stumbling over his own legs. It’s amusing.

The psychiatrist admires your expression, slightly astonished by your reaction. He certainly didn’t expect you to show your true colors so fast. Not a care in the world of how your satisfaction might come across to others.

When Ingram reaches for the bloody hammer, you feel Hannibal’s hands tugging you closer yet again. You let him, leaning on him like an old friend—hip to hip. The warmth of his body is comforting, stirring something insatiable deep inside you.

“Mr. Ingram. Might want to crawl back in there if you know what’s good for you,” Hannibal says casually as he steps aside, taking you with him.

You didn’t even realize that Will had entered the stables. He holds a gun steadily in his hands, pointing it straight at Ingram’s head. Your smirk disappears just as quickly as it appeared, slight shock taking its place on your face.

“Will…” you mumble breathlessly.

You try to reach for him, but Hannibal doesn’t let you step away from him as he tugs you even closer into his side. He presses his lips to your temple and whispers, “He won’t do anything. Don’t worry.”

You’re not sure you believe him. You’ve seen how personal this was to Will, how panic and pure anger took turns in taking over his body since the moment he met Peter. The emotions were controlling him in a way nothing and no one else could.

Ingram drops the sledgehammer to the ground, falling to his knees with arms open and raised like wings—like a blood angel. “Officer… I’m the victim here,” he breathes heavily, but the smile that flashes over his features tells a different story.

“I’m not an officer. I’m Peter’s friend,” Will counters, ignorant to your begging eyes.

Don’t do it, Will. Please, don’t do it.

“Peter’s confused.”

Will feigns hesitation as he lowers the gun just slightly. But the way he grips the weapon tells you easily that he’s far from done with Ingram—his hold doesn’t loosen even for a mere second.

“I’m not.” He raises it back up with an air of palpable confidence. He knows what he wants. He wants to see Clark Ingram begging for life, drowning in the pool of his own blood, choking on it.

You squeeze Hannibal’s fingers so tightly, you’re surprised when he doesn’t even flinch. He just observes Will expressionless.

“Please, Hannibal,” you beg him under your breath, barely audible. You know he hears you, even if he pretends otherwise.

“Pick up the hammer,” Will throws the command, gesturing toward the bloody object that was just thrown to the ground moments ago.

Hannibal glances at your horrified expression, then at Will’s lips pressed tightly in anger. “Will,” he finally interjects with so much stoicism in his voice. His stare alone is insistent enough to make just about anyone listen to him.

But not Will. Will is deaf to Hannibal’s words—especially right now. He doesn’t want to hear him, he doesn’t want to be heard by him. He has a chance to make it right for Peter’s sake, maybe even for his own sake.

“Pick it up,” Will keeps insisting, now, even more agitated. He pops the safety off and puts the pistol almost directly in front of Ingram’s face.

“It won’t feel the same, Will,” Hannibal tries again, stepping toward Will. “It won’t feel like killing me.”

“It doesn’t have to.”

“You did the best anyone could do for Peter, but don’t do this for him. If you’re going to do this, Will, you have to do it for yourself.”

You blink slowly in shock before you push Hannibal away from your husband. You take his place and move so close to Will, you can almost feel his shaky breath on your skin.

“Will, please,” you beg softly, “don’t ruin your life. This isn’t going to fix anything.”

“How do you know, huh?” he spats out, his voice mean—meaner than he ever was toward you.

The adrenaline and the rush of the situation are threatening to derail any semblance of calm you’ve managed to keep over the past hour. You grit your teeth and murmur so quietly, in hopes only he can hear you, “Trust me, I know.”

That seems to awaken him temporarily as he looks at you for a second, confusion written all over his face. His eyes are wide open, searching your face for answers—he finds nothing.

Hannibal’s gaze never leaves you two, watching you carefully. Will is so focused on this mystery, he doesn’t even notice when you take the gun out of his hands and point it at Ingram yourself.

“What?” Will asks, his eyes snapping back to you as you push the gun towards Ingram.

“P-please… Please don’t,” the social worker begs as you step closer and press the gun harshly to his left temple.

“Oh, would you like me to be gentler?” you ask, tilting your head. There’s something deeply attractive about the way you hold the gun with unwavering determination, a fierce protectiveness radiating from you. There’s not an ounce of doubt in your expression; you really do look like a cop now.

Will, amidst the chaos of his thoughts, finds himself strangely drawn to you in this moment. His gaze is fixed on your face, and he can’t help but admire the way you look with that gun in your hand. It’s such a contrast to the innocent woman he married—it’s a side of you he never knew existed. There’s a primal allure to your fierce stance, a primal instinct that resonates with him on a level he can’t quite comprehend.

Hannibal notices the expression on Will’s face, and a smirk plays across his lips. He understands the magnetic pull that emanates from you—the allure. He shares the sentiment with Will, recognizing the primal attraction you exude as you hold the gun with a steady hand.

Your complexity intrigues and captivates them, drawing them in despite the inherent danger. They find it both thrilling and unsettling. The darkness hiding in them stirs with your presence, awakening that primitive instinct that’s been lurking in the depths of their souls. You have them completely entranced, and they can’t tear their eyes away.

Will once thought you were quite simple. He learned to read you like a book, then you disappeared and came back after almost ten years with no contact and he still felt like he knew you well enough. But lately? You’ve been unpredictable, complicated and twisted in your own particular way.

All of them hold their breath, the tension thick. The only sound heard is Will’s breathing—heavy and slow.

Ingram’s eyes are glued to yours. Something in the look he gives you makes all the anger and resentment wash away from your mind, and it takes you a moment to remember why you’re standing there with the gun.

You lean over Ingram and whisper something in his ear that no one else other than him can hear. Judging by the puddle of his own piss that pools on the floor, no one else would want to hear it. His eyes bulge with fear and shock, and he can’t make a peep in response.

Then, you pop the safety back on and hit the social worker in the temple with the butt of the gun. He tumbles over to the floor with a thud.

“Temporal region,” you conclude, straightening up. “You hit it with enough force and you can either kill someone or make them pass out.”

“Good to know,” Will mutters, looking at you again with newfound appreciation and respect.

Hannibal is also staring at you, with a newfound sense of admiration. He’s suddenly aware of your own power over others. As a psychiatrist, he’s learned what kind of tactics are used to break people down, and he knows that you used them against Ingram with devastating precision.

“What did you say to him?” he asks quietly, the rage still lurking just beneath the surface.

Hannibal watches as the two of you stare at each other intensely. He can’t help but feel a strange excitement rising inside of him as he watches the two of you square off against each other.

Will’s intensity is almost palpable—there’s a primal instinct within him that craves power, and he’s fascinated by the way you wield yours.

“Nothing that you need to know,” you reply simply, not about to divulge the details of your threat.

When Hannibal sees the intensity in both of your gazes, he can’t help but feel a strange stirring within him. He’s never seen the two of you so intense about anything before.

Will’s eyes narrow as he stares at you. He wants to know what you said, he wants to know the darkest depths of your mind. But he respects that it’s something you don’t want to share and lets it go.Hannibal can’t take his eyes off the two of you. It’s almost like he’s staring at a trainwreck he can’t look away from. He might just be right.

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[defectivevillain]

judgment by the hounds

pairing: Loki Laufeyson & Reader (can be read as platonic or romantic; reader's race is ambiguous and gender/pronouns are unspecified)

summary:

Loki is captured and held in S.H.I.E.L.D. captivity. However, he doesn’t attempt to break free right away. Instead, he bides his time by waiting for something—or, more accurately, someone.

You’re an FBI agent called in by S.H.I.E.L.D. to interrogate their newest prisoner, Loki Laufeyson.

word count: 5.6k | ao3 version

warnings: blood, injury & gore typical to SotL; manipulation & mind games

I thought about writing this as I was reading Silence of the Lambs — I imagined questioning Loki & having a similar dynamic with him during his temporary imprisonment. There aren’t any explicit references to SoL in here, but I wanted to include it as a fandom tag because Hannibal & Clarice’s dynamic really inspired this fic.

This is not canon compliant, and there will likely be some discrepancies. Just pretend this is an alternate timeline. :>

The title of this fic is from I’m Your Man by Mitski. The lyrics “I’ll meet judgment by the hounds… People always gave me love… Others were never to blame after all… You believe me like a god, I’ll betray you like a man” felt pretty relevant to this fic.

The reader is racially ambiguous, gender is ambiguous, and pronouns aren't used. warnings: canon-typical violence and gore (typical to SotL)

thanks anna (@pinocchiospissrock) for the beta! (any remaining mistakes are mine.) luv u and so excited to see u soon!!!! <333

If you told your younger self that your criminal investigative work would’ve earned you a conversation with the legendary Nick Fury, the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., your younger self would have laughed. The mere thought would be preposterous. Fury is the face of the entire organization, and the founder of the Avengers! What would a mere FBI agent like yourself do to even earn a moment with him, let alone a full conversation? 

Apparently, you’re becoming somewhat renowned for your investigative work. You’ve always avoided the press—otherwise you would have noticed your name cropping up in cases with big profiles in the public eye. You would’ve noticed that you were slowly starting to get more and more credit for your accomplishments; you would’ve been able to connect the dots between Nick Fury—desperate for information and willing to do anything to get it—and you—an FBI agent rising in the ranks for important work with the Behavioral Analysis Unit and Jack Crawford. 

Despite these recognitions, however, you can’t quite believe that you’re being flown to the S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters in New York City to speak with Nick Fury. Truly, this feels like some kind of fever dream. As you’re escorted through the high-level security installments on the ground floor of the building, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re not meant to be here. This must be some kind of mistake, you’re thinking to yourself, even as you’re given a visitor ID badge. You’re led into a glass elevator that rises to the twentieth floor, through a cold stone hall and even more security installments. Eventually, you come face-to-face with a nondescript wooden door. The security guard knocks on the door and opens it for you, revealing a clean and modern space with black leather furniture and an array of windows (bulletproof and likely very durable) overlooking the street below. There is a figure seated at the grand desk in the center of the room. Nick Fury looks up at the sudden disturbance, his brown eye immediately assessing your form before moving to the guard in the doorway. He nods and the guard steps out of the room, closing the door behind them. 

“Agent, have a seat,” Fury offers. It’s an order, not a simple statement. You comply immediately and Fury raises an eyebrow. For a long moment, tension settles in the air as Nick Fury unsubtly scrutinizes you. Fury puts a contemplative hand on his chin and stares at you. Despite the eye patch covering his left eye, his menacing gaze is enough to send a shiver down your spine. 

“I’m sure you’re wondering why you’re here,” Fury remarks vaguely. You nod. “I need you to do something for me.” You raise an eyebrow. When he continues, any confidence you gained from the notion of him requesting something of you promptly fades from existence. He tells you about a god with a penchant for mischief that borders on cruelty—about a devastating attack on New York City that left thousands injured and hundreds dead. You had heard about the attack on the news, but you had too much going on to truly process what you were seeing. Fury tells you that this trickster, a Norse god by the name of Loki, is currently in S.H.I.E.L.D.’s most secure containment. It’s clear S.H.I.E.L.D. is desperate for information, otherwise they wouldn’t be bringing you in for something like this—this is far above your pay grade. Norse gods were never mentioned in your training at Quantico.

“Loki has been largely uncooperative,” Fury continues, immune to the emotional whiplash you’re currently experiencing. “We needed to try a different approach.” He looks at you after that. “Can you do this?” You take a slow breath in. Do you really have a choice? 

“Yes, sir,” you respond. Fury regards you for another second, before evidently deciding that your answer is satisfactory. He then hands you a device, which appears to be a pass that allows you entrance into the high-security cells. It’s an effective dismissal. You take it and murmur a word of thanks, before stepping out of the room. With the security guard’s guidance, you’re able to learn the location of the high-security prison and you take another elevator ride. When the doors ding, a giant metronome sounds off in your head. You can’t go back now, you think to yourself as you cross the threshold of the elevator and step towards the reinforced metal door with a fingerprint and retinal scanner. You glance at the guard, who nods and urges you to continue. Somehow, in the brief time that you spoke with Fury, your information is registered in the system and your name appears on screen after it scans your finger. You then lean down and allow the machine to scan your retina, before a blue light flashes once. You frown at the door, before seeing a screen flashing on the left side. You push the pad to the screen and the door clicks, swinging open ominously.  

You take a step forward and leave the door open, expecting for the guard to follow you. They shoot you a disbelieving look and take a step backwards, letting the door fall shut. You’re left alone in a hallway reminiscent of a steel prison. As you slowly walk down the narrow path between iron bars, you feel hard gazes boring into your very skin. Someone jeers at you. You keep walking until you reach the solitary cell at the end of the hall. For the first time since entering the space, you allow yourself to look up—only to look into the glimmering green eyes of Loki Laufeyson. 

Safe to say, Fury neglected to mention that Loki would be the single most intimidating individual you’ve ever had the misfortune and displeasure to meet. Staring at him through the thick walls of glass, you’re suffocated with a sudden, intense dread. Even if Fury hadn’t given you any background on him, you’re sure you still would’ve been able to surmise this man’s maleficence and cruelty. He has long dark hair, sharp features, and a positively malevolent grin on his face. 

“Hello,” you murmur guardedly. The thick walls of glass aren’t enough to ensure you of your safety—that attentive gaze cuts straight through your skin and sinks deep into the bone. The god raises an eyebrow at you, pausing for a moment to allow you the opportunity to turn tail and run away. You very nearly take the gifted opportunity, before you remember that information on the invasion could save lives.

“Are you lost?” Loki asks, regarding you with as much respect as someone regards a pebble beneath their feet. Your hands are ever so slightly trembling from your sides and you stuff your hands in your pockets, suddenly feeling the need to keep yourself occupied. 

“No,” You eventually reply. You decide to introduce yourself, before raising your eyebrows at the god in return. You resist the urge to ask him to introduce himself. You know who he is, and you would likely end up insulting him with the question anyway. Unfortunately, you’re going to have to be very careful around him. The slightest word or provocation would lose the information for good. Why are you being called in for this, again?

“What could possibly have possessed Fury to send a mere agent such as yourself to speak with me?” The god questions, echoing your very own thoughts. You take a deep breath and try to steel your nerves. 

“I’m a criminal investigator,” you respond, once your tongue is no longer ironed to the roof of your mouth. “I’ve spent most of my life studying how criminal types think and what motivates them. I want to ask you a few questions.”

“Interesting,” Loki hums. He doesn’t seem the least bit intrigued; rather, he appears incredibly bored. “And you think this Midgardian experience is enough to grant you a conversation with me? You know nothing of who I am and what I am capable of.” 

You want to be surprised, but you expected something along those lines. A brief white-hot fury overtakes you as you remember the tension in Fury’s shoulders, the withdrawn tone in his voice, how he seemed to expect you to fail. Everyone is expecting you to fail. “I know enough,” you respond, before you can contemplate the consequences of doing so.  In truth, Fury had given you Loki’s file earlier. He also left you with a few words of warning. You manage to tear yourself away from your conversation with Fury and focus on what you viewed in Loki’s file. The information comes to mind within seconds. “You caused quite the scene in Germany. I suspect that was the intention.” There is no acknowledgement that he’s even listening to you, save for the intense gaze that seems to be dissecting you for his own amusement. 

The words slip from your tongue before you can stop them. “You’re the adopted son of Odin and Frigga, and the brother of Thor. Your real father is Laufey, the Frost Giant King. You’re the God of Mischief. And you’re a constant thorn in the side of the Avengers and Nick Fury.”

“Those are just the facts,” you conclude. You’re met with nothing but silence. There’s an undercurrent of expectation in the air, as if he’s waiting for you to continue. You grit your teeth. Somehow, you have his attention now. It would be best if you didn’t lose it. “As for my first impressions… You’re manipulative, obviously. Cunning and clever. Selfish, extremely controlling. You derive pleasure from other people’s pain. You enjoy being the chessmaster—manipulating your pawns and discarding them the moment they’ve fulfilled their purpose.”

“Beneath all that, you’re frighteningly human. Jealousy, envy, a visceral desire for Odin’s approval, and a thirst for power… You delight in your darkest urges and scorn any of the ones that come close to resembling even a hint of genuine emotion.”

“Now will you answer my questions?” You finish. 

Loki’s head is down now. His shoulders are shaking and for a second, you think he’s crying. Then he raises his head, revealing a twisted grin on his face. “No one has possessed the courage to talk to me in such a manner in millenia,” the god remarks, his hands clasped behind his back. He takes a step forward and inspects you through the glass. You remember your fear from earlier. “Who are you, exactly?”

“I’ve already told you,” you answer. You’ve done this song and dance before, and you have enough experience to know nothing good comes from giving a criminal your name. In the few rare instances in which it seemed that they simply wouldn’t give in, you would give a fake name. You’re not foolish enough to try that with the God of Mischief, though. “Besides, that doesn’t matter. I’m here for information.” You repeat for what feels like the umpteenth time. 

“Oh, I’m well aware,” Loki says, studying you with scrutiny. Your skin crawls. Everything about this feels like a horrible idea. Not for the first time, you question why you were called in for this assignment. “I’m not allowed visitors otherwise—on account of the last one being found in his home with his throat slit.” There’s another flash of amusement in his eyes. 

“Fun,” you remark flatly. Your heart is racing out of your chest, but you know not to show your apprehension. Fear is Loki’s game. “Seriously, though. I assume you want to get out of here in the next millennium.” You remark. 

“Au contraire,” Loki replies. It takes you a few seconds to process what he says, and several more seconds to recall the translation: ‘On the contrary.’ You wait patiently for the god to continue.  “You don’t really think I’ll be released, do you? And don’t bother pretending otherwise—you don’t have the power or authority to make promises here.”

“I’m not sure why you’re entertaining conversation with me in the first place, then,” you reason. You feel lost in this conversation, admittedly. It’s taking an unhealthy amount of mental energy to keep yourself afloat in these verbal traps.

“Maybe I’m bored,” Loki drawls. In the fluorescent lighting beaming down on him, he looks every bit as royal as he is rumored to be. “Maybe I’m waiting for you to let your guard down, for your mental defenses to fade away and corrode into nothingness before my control slips into your psyche, forcing you to be a spectator as I pilot your body and mind.”

You stare at him for a moment, heart hammering away in your chest. Somehow, it’s that sentiment that cements the reality of the situation. You’re not qualified enough for whatever the hell this is. You’ve interrogated loads of criminals before, but they’ve never posed a legitimate physical and mental threat to you in the same manner that Loki does. You find yourself genuinely fearing for your safety as you stare at Loki’s glittering green eyes. 

As your heart races and you take a few steps backwards, you catch a sudden blur in your peripheral vision, before you’re struck with white-hot pain that flares up the left side of your face. You blink dazedly and bring a hand up to your left cheek, only to find blood splattered across your skin. There’s a jagged fragment resting on the floor near your foot—evidently the cause of the wound. You turn to the left, only to find the man from before clutching at the bars of his cell with ferocity—a crazed look in his eyes as he stares at you. Your gaze then falls to the porcelain toilet in the corner of his cell, with a notable chunk missing. That must’ve been where he got the shard. The side of your face is burning, hot blood trickling down your cheek. You press the back of your hand to the wound in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. Unsurprisingly, the wound doesn’t magically heal or stop bleeding. You grimace and set off down the hallway, intending to leave and find a first-aid kit. Just as your palm flattens on the door, Loki says your name. 

You pause, your cheek stinging. You feel Loki’s gaze at your back and you know you probably don’t have the luxury to continue walking away. Yet… you can’t bear to turn around. You open the door and walk away, unaware of the furious expression on Loki’s face. The security guard’s eyebrows climb up their face as they see the blood trickling down your face, but you simply hand them the keypad and walk away. 

You have nothing in lieu of information and a fresh, jagged cut on your cheek. You don’t expect to be called to the high-security cells again any time soon—not after that complete and utter failure. You leave S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters that day with a bandage on your cheek and wounded pride. The conversation with Loki keeps you up that night in your hotel room, as you turn over every statement in your head. There’s a notable disconnect between Loki’s words and his actions. Furthermore, if he’s truly so powerful, then why is he still contained? You know S.H.I.E.L.D. is well-equipped to handle villains, but Loki is a Norse god. Surely he could snap his fingers and transport himself somewhere else? If that’s the case, you can’t help but wonder why he hasn’t escaped yet. 

You avoid work the next few days to fully recover from the physical and mental injuries acquired that day. It’s nice to have some free time, but it is still somewhat dampened by the knowledge that you didn’t get any information from Loki. Fury is going to be, well, furious. 

Safe to say, you don’t expect to see Nick Fury on your doorstep one morning, a troubled expression on his face. You greet him and try to invite him in, but he remains outside. His dissecting gaze flits about your face, searching for something. “It’s been an interesting day, Agent,” he evidently decides to say.  

“How so?” You ask. Fury glances to his left and right, before taking a small step forward and leaning closer. 

“A prisoner in the high security area was murdered,” he murmurs, “He was found in his cell. It seems he was fed his own tongue before he choked and suffocated to death. Miggs. Awful guy, but… we had intended on getting more information from him.” Fury shakes his head. Meanwhile, you’re reeling. There’s no way the prisoner that was murdered was the same one who assaulted you earlier. That would be a truly troubling occurrence—one you’re not quite sure you could put down to coincidence. 

“Anyway…  I need you to speak with Loki again.” Fury continues, his expression serious. He raises an eyebrow upon seeing the slight shock that must be showing on your face. “You seem surprised.”

You nod. “I was under the impression that our conversation didn’t go well,” you decide to respond honestly. Fury seems to appreciate the truthfulness, although his eyebrows furrow and he takes a deep breath. 

There’s a beat of silence. “He’s refused to speak with anyone else we’ve sent,” Fury explains, “Since your last visit, he’s been exceptionally…Well. He asked for you specifically.”

What was Fury going to say just then? And, more importantly, did you even hear him correctly? Did Loki really ask to speak with you, even after the tense conversation you had? You’re immediately suspicious. 

“Listen,” Fury breaks off, looking conflicted and resolved all at once. “For whatever reason, he’s different with you. I’m not sure why, but whatever the reason, we need to take advantage. Loki has valuable information about the attack on New York.” 

“In reality, he asked for you a few days ago,” Fury continues, after a few moments of uncomfortable silence. You look over to him in surprise. “I refused. But… since then, he’s been extremely disagreeable—and we’re running out of time.”

“I’ll try to speak with him,” you answer. That’s the best you can promise. You certainly can’t promise that it’ll be a productive conversation, or that you’ll get any information from him. Indeed, the last discussion you had with Loki, it felt as if you were disclosing more information than he was. Still, the prospect seems to be good enough for Fury. 

“Thank you, Agent,” he nods, returning the keycard that grants access to the high security area. You take a deep breath and follow him back to his car, steeling your nerves as the city buildings pass before your vision. Once you reach the headquarters, you walk down the halls and head to the elevators. Fury and you part ways as he gets off the elevator, and he leaves you with a brief nod. 

It only takes a few steps in the hallway of the high-security cells for you to notice that something’s missing. A cell is empty—the same one that Miggs had occupied before. You feel dread coiling in your chest, yet you can’t stop yourself from taking a step closer and getting a better look at the empty cell. There’s blood splattered all across the ground—although it appears as if someone tried to clean it, since it bears a closer resemblance to dark brown than red. The sheets of the mattress are clean and the cell looks entirely untouched, save for the stains across the floor and the noticeable chunk missing from the toilet. 

Your attention is captured by the cell—so much so that you forget your company. “Ah, what a pleasant surprise,” Loki remarks, sending your heart racing as you remember his presence. You take a deep breath and tear your eyes away from the evidence of Miggs’s death. As you break the distance between Loki’s enclosure and you, you can’t help but shake the feeling that he had something to do with the death of Miggs. You don’t have any proof, but the awful feeling stirring in your gut certainly makes you question what you thought you knew. 

Loki clears his throat pointedly and you remember yourself. “You asked for me,” you then answer cautiously. 

“Yes, but I wasn’t sure if Fury would oblige,” Loki drawls, regarding you with mild amusement. You’re not sure what he thinks is entertaining, so you just pretend not to have noticed his smug grin. “He doesn’t seem to care for me much.”

“I’d argue most of us don’t,” you hear yourself blurt out. You really need a better filter, especially in a conversation as important as this one. If you want information from Loki, you’ll have to be nicer to him. Despite that thought, Loki is staring at you with the same amusement as before. There’s no sense that the insult even registered. 

“And yourself?” The god asks, once again reminding you that you’re the one at the mercy of the conversation. You grit your teeth and try to remain calm, despite the overwhelming feelings of inadequacy that threaten to send you down the hall. 

“What about me?” You raise an eyebrow. 

“You said most of us,” Loki says, “Does that include you?”

You don’t bother to dignify that question with a response. “What do you want?” He doesn’t respond and you resist the urge to exhibit any signs of your growing impatience. “You asked to speak with me—I’m assuming you want something.”

“I have information you want,” Loki states, his eyes boring into yours and sending a prickling sensation down your skin. His intense gaze is unnerving, and you feel as if you’re being intensely scrutinized. “You have information I want. I propose a trade.”

You’re not surprised by the remark, save for the idea that you have something he wants. “I’m not quite sure what information I could give you,” you frown, shifting your balance slightly to keep your body occupied. You cross your arms over your chest and pretend you don’t feel entirely vulnerable in front of Loki. 

“I’ll be the one to determine that,” the god says. His next statement is entirely unexpected. “Now, tell me about yourself, your childhood.”

“What?” You choke out. “About myself? I don’t see how that’s relevant.” You break off. Loki’s gaze is focused on you with burning intensity. You take a shuddering breath in and try to summon some information that isn’t dangerous for you to disclose. “I’m a criminal investigator—have been for years. I’m from around here, grew up here.” You end up settling for a mix of ambiguity and omission. Loki seems to pick up on it regardless. 

“Don’t lie to me.” His gaze is dark and dangerous. It suddenly feels as if the temperature dropped in the space around you. You’re pinned under the god’s watchful eyes. “I think I deserve more than that, don’t you?” You can’t find the words to answer. You have, once again, severely underestimated Loki’s capabilities. 

“Very well, then,” Loki murmurs some time later, after it’s clear that you’re unwilling to give him more information. His posture is effortlessly casual, but you know it’s just a façade. “I can start for you. You worked as a criminal investigator for years in your hometown, until you decided to become an FBI agent. With more responsibility came more criminals, and closer calls. Even so, you began to gain notoriety for your cases. Your name appears in more and more press coverage. Meanwhile, Nick Fury grows increasingly frustrated with me, with the lack of information. He sees you on the morning news and finds his perfect solution. He calls you here to New York, tells you that he needs you for this pivotal role. An exaggeration, of course.”

“You agree with his offer—surely, you don’t have any other choice. Meanwhile, Fury promptly forgets your existence, until he needs you once more. A tool in a toolbox is all you are to him. Why else would he send you to me? He doesn’t have faith in your abilities, Agent—he just needs bait.”

You know it’s true, but it still hurts. Truthfully, you had suspected the same thing; something about the Norse god speaking on your thoughts cements them in reality. Indeed, why else would Fury have called you in? There are plenty of high-ranking officials that would’ve been better suited for such a task. 

“You come in here and provoke me,” Loki continues, as if you aren’t even there. He seems entirely in his element as he paces about his cell. “I attack you, then break out of captivity. A group of agents lurks outside to interrupt my eventual escape. The whole thing is laughably predictable, really.” Your eyes widen as you realize just why the security guard lingered outside the door. They aren’t guarding the door—it’s secure enough on its own. They’re guarding you, waiting for you to fail and for Loki to escape. The thought sends a shiver down your spine. 

“And, of course, you have a visceral desire for Fury’s approval,” he continues, repeating what you said to him mere days ago. You feel as if a bucket of ice cold water was just dumped all over you, making you shiver and question everything you thought you knew. Are you really so formulaic? Have you been lured into a false sense of confidence these past few years? You try to grapple with these questions, while the god stares at you. “Am I ‘in the ballpark,’ as you mortals say?” There’s a sharp grin on Loki’s face that deeply unsettles you. 

It takes you several moments to collect your composure and find the words to say. “I think you know you are,” you respond, ignoring your heart pounding out of your chest. It’s unnerving that Loki could glean that much about you in such a short time span. Despite his obvious attempt at mockery, you know that you need to answer his questions if you want information. You keep silent and wait for Loki to continue. 

“Now, you still haven’t given me anything,” Loki reminds you, dispelling any hope that he may have forgotten. You feel extremely restless and steadily avoid his gaze, even when you feel his eyes practically tearing holes through your form. “So, I ask once more: what was your childhood like?”

You can’t afford to argue this time—not if you want information. The glint in Loki’s eyes grows brighter with each tidbit you give him. At his request, you tell him about your past—everything from your childhood home to the relationships you have with your family. Time becomes fickle and you don’t realize you’re oversharing until you glance down at your watch and see that far too much time has passed.  “That’s more than enough,” you interject some time later. You don’t feel as if you can truly grasp the severity of your actions just now. Even so, you know that you’ve given him too much ammunition. You pinch the bridge of your nose, feeling a headache developing. “It’s your turn.”

“Very well,” Loki responds, his lips parting to reveal a crooked smirk. The expression on his face confirms your suspicions that he was planning on continuing the conversation until you stopped him. “I will answer two of your questions.” You feel your heart drop. 

“Two?”  You exclaim in disbelief, “You must’ve asked me a hundred just now-”

“I didn’t force you to answer any of my questions,” Loki reasons. Unfortunately, he’s correct in that regard—you should’ve been more wary. You let your guard down and he was content to take advantage of it. “Now, do you want information or not?”

You grit your teeth. Damn it. Two questions is a very insignificant number. You try to remember what Fury told you mere minutes before. “He’s been extremely disagreeable… and we’re running out of time.” You can’t afford to slip up here. 

“Fine,” you say. The look on Loki’s face doesn’t change, but you can still sense arrogance radiating off of him. “Why?” You decide to ask. 

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Loki drawls, continuing to pace about. He looks completely and utterly bored. “Why does one do anything?” You resist an eye roll. 

“Why did you do it?” You rephrase. You don’t need to specify for Loki to understand what you’re referring to: the attack on New York, the Chitauri invasion. Surely, knowing his motivations would help S.H.I.E.L.D. prevent instances like it from happening in the future. Besides, you’re not sure what else to ask. As has been established, you don’t think you’re the best fit for this task of vital importance. 

“I was seeking revenge,” Loki answers without hesitation. His unblinking gaze is beginning to unnerve you. “Is that what you’d like me to say?”

“I’d like you to tell the truth,” you assert, unable to hide some of your irritation. The god picks up on it and smiles infuriatingly, as if your annoyance is entertaining. Perhaps it is entertaining to him. You take a deep breath and remind yourself to keep calm. It would do you no good to get riled up. You have one job: collecting information. 

“The truth,” Loki remarks languidly, tearing you from your thoughts. His answer comes without hesitation. “I was bored.” Boredom. Boredom pushed him to wreak havoc on the city, causing hundreds of casualties and inordinate bloodshed. Loki was motivated by a lack of fulfillment. The thought is extremely disconcerting. On the one hand, you’re not sure what you were expecting. On the other, you had been looking for a more clearcut, legitimate reason to contextualize his actions. You weren’t planning on excusing his crimes, but if he provided something that seemed to somewhat justify his reaction, you would’ve been able to get more information and also deduce a clear motive to these kinds of attacks. Perhaps that was your error in thinking, though: Loki can’t be a predictor of a pattern. He is wildly unpredictable, and trying to predict him will both waste your time and only result in more frustration.

“One more question,” Loki reminds you tauntingly. You grit your teeth, pushing past your irritation. The god seems to enjoy emphasizing the differences between you and him—your mortality, your weakness.  

You try to think a little harder. Admittedly, a particular question has been weighing on your mind throughout most of your interactions, burrowing into your subconscious and refusing to let go. After a few moments, you decide to verbalize it. “Why haven’t you escaped yet?”

The god laughs. “Haven’t I?” Loki asks in response. A shiver rolls down your spine. You watch warily as he takes one step forward, then another. From what you’ve seen, the god will often pace about his cell. However, his current movements make it seem as if he has a purpose, an endgame. Loki’s eyes flash. He takes another step forward and his foot crosses the threshold where the glass is supposed to be. Loki grins and crosses the entirety of the boundary, before looking at you with a truly malicious smile. He’s free from captivity.  

You can’t even take a step backwards before the god is there , extending a hand to your temple and pressing his fingertips past your skin, into your very being. And suddenly, you’re a child again. Everything you told Loki is rushing through your head all at once. You’re trapped in vivid memories. The world around you is blurred with childlike joy and hope. Your surroundings all seem to fall away; despite your knowledge that you aren’t a child anymore, you can’t escape this onslaught of memory that Loki seemed to force on you. 

When Loki removes his hand from your temple, you nearly choke on your breath. There’s an excruciating pain running through your head—strong enough to make you lose your balance. Despite the fact that you’re horribly outmatched, you still try to get away from him. You’re not sure what the God of Mischief wants, but you doubt it’s anything good. This interest—as Fury said—that he’s cultivated in you… It’s dangerous. 

You should be dead right now. Surely, were you any other S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, your corpse would be slowly decaying on the ground in front of you. You heard whispers of what Loki did to some of the agents that spoke to him before you. One of them was directly admitted to a mental hospital—unable to ground themself in reality. The thought shakes you to your core. 

You take another step backwards, only for him to match your retreat with a step forward. Your balance is growing more and more unsteady as you try to fight against the vertigo threatening to send you tumbling. Your vision is oscillating between painful sharpness and indiscernible blurriness. “What do you want from me?” You manage to spit out through the pained haze. 

“Everything.” Loki answers. Before you can push him away, he’s bringing a hand to your temple again. Your mind explodes with energy and you feel your eyelids fluttering shut of their own accord. You try your hardest to remain conscious and you manage to catch glimpses: Loki’s hand slipping from your temple as you fall to the ground. Loki carrying you out of the building. You’re stuck in the recesses of your own mind, with no hope for escape. Eventually, you’re forced to succumb to the darkness lurking in the corners of your vision.

It may strike you all as strange that Loki stays in captivity rather than escaping, but I think I can justify that with a multitude of reasons. First of all, he's immortal—time passes differently for him. While a mortal may agonize at the thought of being trapped in a capsule for an indefinite time, Loki is entirely unbothered by it. He knows that he has the ability to escape; the question then becomes when he will escape, not if he will escape. Second, Loki has a reason to stay: the reader. He is interested in the reader [the nature of this interest is up to you]. He enjoys the conversations they have, especially when they’re under the false guise of him being trapped and in a position of need. The God of Mischief isn’t one to rush things. Anyway, that’s how I justified these choices to myself. *shrugs*

I desperately wanted to add something like this, but I couldn’t find an authentic moment for it… It may seem a little out of character, too… So I’ll throw it here and walk away:

“You should put some ointment on that,” Loki suggests, looking pointedly at the scar on your face. “Don’t Midgardians care about that sort of thing? Quite foolish, in my opinion.” “How is that foolish?” You ask. “Scars are proof of conquest,” Loki responds. “Of course,” you sigh.

#loki x reader #loki x gn reader #loki laufeyson #loki x male reader #male reader #gn reader #x male reader #nb reader #etc

[chaparral-crown]

byran and hugh and mads said will's life with molly was unsustainable

With all due respect to their work on the show, I don’t take discussions that are had after the conclusion of the show as anything but a “if wishes were horses” conversation that are interesting to read, but not the final product. I’m grading the paper I was given, not the explanation of it. It’s not in the interest of an ongoing narrative for Will to become inert, so that’s not the focus of a round table discussion to keep people engaged.

More to the point, my feeling on Will being able to function without Hannibal is a reflection of the opinion I think he’s a resilient person, and that everyone will experience a great disappointment in their life that they will move on from. Divorced of the narrative, he could and likely would make a simple life work. I’m not suggesting he doesn’t love Hannibal, or even that the alternative that he can’t sustain his life is impossible - only that I think he’s capable of making decisions, and it’s often external influence that keeps knocking holes in his resolve.

And honestly more important than that, it’s a headcanon. Fuller and co. can have them too, and people are allowed to respect them more than mine. I like to entertain some dismal reality from time to time, and it’s not necessarily good television.

[fatalism-and-villainy]

More thoughts about the dynamic I talked about here:

It’s telling that the way Abigail engages with Hannibal re: Nick Boyle’s death is very different from the way she engages with Will about it (and by extension, that the way Hannibal engages with Will about GJH’s death is very different from how he engages with Abigail about Nick Boyle’s death).

That is to say, Hannibal’s initial, outward response to Abigail killing Nick Boyle is primarily disapproval - foregrounding what she’s most trying to conceal about herself, and positioning himself as a moral authority who’s making a considerable sacrifice to protect her:

Hannibal: This isn’t self-defense, Abigail. You butchered him. Abigail: I didn’t. Hannibal: They will see what you did. And they will see you as an accessory to the crimes of your father. Abigail: I wasn’t. Hannibal: I can help you, if you ask me to. At great risk to my career and my life. You have a choice. You can tell them you were defending yourself when you gutted this man. Or we can hide the body. (1.3)

Later, he changes tack and allows that Abigail did do the right thing and that self-defense is an excusable motive:

Abigail: You’re glad I killed him. Hannibal: What would be the alternative? That he kill you? (1.3)

And:

Abigail: In the dream, I wonder how I could live with myself, knowing what I did. Hannibal: And when you’re awake? Abigail: When I’m awake, I know I can live with myself. And I know I’ll just get used to what I did. Does that make me a sociopath? Hannibal: No. It makes you a survivor. (1.4)

This change in approach is partly by design, I think - his more condemnatory initial approach impresses on Abigail the worst possible interpretation of her actions (and hints at the fact that he can see through the front she’s putting up), in order to get her to trust him, and then gradually he starts to show qualified approval and emphasize her agency to move behind her father’s influence. And his emphasis on self-defense in their conversation at the end of Potage serves as a way of deflecting Abigail’s sharp inference that he might be a serial killer. But he consistently only approves of Abigail committing murder in utilitarian terms, rather than emphasizing any satisfaction Abigail might have gotten from it.

And the person who does validate that for her is, of course, Will, when they compare notes on killing her father vs. killing Nick Boyle:

Abigail: I thought there was something wrong with me, because I didn’t feel ugly when I killed Nick Boyle. I felt good. That’s why it was so easy to lie about it. Will: Like you didn’t do anything wrong. Abigail: Feel like you’d done something wrong when you killed my dad? Will: I felt terrified. And then… I felt powerful. Abigail: It felt good. To get to end it, to stop it all. (1.12)

They’re both nodding so vigorously by the end of that exchange, just fully understanding in that moment how the other is feeling. And significantly, Hannibal doesn’t set himself up as someone with whom she can unload those feelings on, or find that kind of understanding with! Obviously he doesn’t want to go mask-off about being a serial killer immediately, but he doesn’t even drop any hints with about the appeal of murder; and meanwhile with Will, where he’s got all his “it’s beautiful, in its own way” and “killing must feel good to God” and “not flesh and blood but light and air and colour” lines. Aside from his initial intimation that she had darker motives, his approach with Abigail is mostly affirming her best qualities, suggesting she’s not like her father and that she had no choice but to kill Nick Boyle. And Will ends up being the one to affirm Abigail’s darker qualities.

And, well - my sense of why Hannibal takes this approach is that he was hoping for exactly that. He wanted Abigail to go to Will with those feelings, to be drawn to Will because he offered a potential source of a specific kind of validation and understanding that she wasn’t getting from Hannibal - and thus, for Abigail to help draw out Will’s murderous impulses in turn. Just as he used the prospect of protecting Abigail to push Will’s sense of ethics a little bit farther out. They were both the bait, for each other.

#hannibal meta #abigail hobbs #hannibal lecter #will graham #hannibal #my meta #hannibal talk #there was some group chat discussion awhile back about how hannibal intended to make the murder family happen #before his hand was forced in putting will in prison #and while i'm sure he was playing it by ear #in terms of revealing himself and pushing the others into a place where they could accept him #i do think a lot of his plan relied on using abigail to bridge the gap between will's s1 ethics and what hannibal wanted for him

[suchawrathfullamb]

FRANCIS/REBA + WILL/HANNIBAL

I came across a TikTok talking about the correlation between Reba, Dollarhyde and Hannigram, and although throughout the whole Dragon plot, it may not seem like there is any correlation, after Reba's plot, we have her last scene and it is essentially confirmed that it was, indeed, related, and it is confirmed by Will himself, by speaking to her in a way that is very obvious he understands what she's been through on a personal level..."not just the blind". And also him projecting, telling her "there's nothing wrong with you", clearly talking to himself there. So this scene is the grounding point for this messy rambling.

With that in mind, if we go back to the other episodes where we were getting through the Dragon's plot, there's a lot of interesting points to correlate to Hannigram, such as the scene where Reba feels the tiger, "the beast", a word that has been used to refer to Hannibal before. Reba is in awe of the creature, yet it is harmless because it is sedated. We could look at it as Will being Reba ("blind" to danger) and the tiger being Hannibal, as the TikTok creator proposes, she talks about Will/Reba being able to feel the soft side of Francis/Hannibal that the world does not see.

Alternatively we could look at it as Reba being Will, the tiger being his wild instincts and his own darkness, and Dollarhyde being Hannibal: he took Reba to the zoo and watched in amazement as she delighted in the experience of feeling the tiger, much like H delighted in seeing Will "interacting" with his own darkness.

"The beast's heartbeat" could be a symbol for how even though the man (Francis and H) are conceived as separate from the beast (Will implies that in the conversation with Reba, saying "you didn't draw a freak, you drew a man with a freak on his back")...But now as I write this it's making think about how Will could just as easily be referring to himself, as if he perceives that H is the "freak" on his own back...Hence why he wants to help Francis, and yes, we know he was jealous, yet Will has the tendency to be extremely compassionate towards the criminals he feels are fighting something within, and says so in the same convo with Reba...He says Francis was trying to stop, says, again, that Francis isn't a freak, just "has a freak on his back". He relates somehow. He tries helping them because he wants to believe he can help himself, which was directly shown in S2, in the horse episode, with the social worker and Peter, the guy Will related to.

They (Reba and Dolarhyde) also shared a deep (and quite mystical) sexual connection. It was the first time Francis experienced love...or what he perceives love to be. The symbolism of Reba being blind could be saying that, for Francis, one needs to be blind to truly accept him (he thinks he's ugly/deformed)? Maybe. Maybe it's even the opposite...She can't see how he looks so she likes him on a deeper level (in his perception, at least). It's an interesting aspect to contemplate nonetheless, I have no definitive answer to that.

For those of you who aren't familiar with the biblical text this plot derives from, the Woman Clothed With The Sun, or The Apocalypse Woman, is said to be carrying a child, a son, and the Dragon (Satan) wants her child, but isn't able to get him or able to even attack her, though he tries. We see that on the show, where after they make love, Francis' Dragon wants her. He tells Hannibal this and we have this interesting line:

This makes me think of how Hannibal thought he needed to eat Will (in that conversation with Bedelia) but never actually did it. I wonder if he came to a similar conclusion, "having him alive", although of course Hannibal doesn't kill or eat people because there's a greater force inside him making him do so, but he does have the whole idea of needing to eat in order to forgive (which is ambiguous).

This dialogue happens immediately after Hannibal says he feels love for Will. Obviously H is extremely arrogant or downright delusional and doesn't seem to consider that what he did to Will in the first place, was betrayal, and what Will did was merely a reaction to the hardcore betrayals he experienced, and so he still thinks he's the one who has to forgive somehow. Or perhaps he's just lying to himself. Either way, we have a similar situation with Francis, the Dragon, H and Will. The *extremely* ambiguous dialogue between H and Bedelia seems to imply that he does not accept feeling love? He "blames" Mischa for making him feel something he cannot control (picture above).

Is that why he feels the "need" to consume Will? In the original work H is fed his sister unknowingly, but in the NBC version it's implied he simply ate her to honor her death. Mads says so in a s3 special, he found the caged man molesting and killing her, therefore this cannot be the same as people feeding him Mischa without his knowledge or consent. Bedelia also implies this in the bathtub scene, she asks what was his first "spring lamb", then immediately asks "what did your sister taste like?".

All of this to try to make sense of why he said that to Francis. He couldn't have predicted Francis was interested in Will, so that's not what he had in mind when suggesting to keep her alive, and "not worry about feeling love for her". Did Hannibal finally came to this conclusion/acceptance himself? That he doesn't need to consume Will just because he loves him, just like Francis doesn't need to kill Reba because the love he felt for her incited the Dragon? Maybe. H actually contemplates killing Will when they're at the cliff house (see WOTL script) but his "compassion is inconvenient" and so he doesn't.

What's the point of this? God only knows. Anyway,

Closing this useless mess up with canon Hannibal is Will's God. I'm sorry if you came this far and thought I actually had a point. This show destroyed my brain and before that I was on the Supernatural fandom so, imagine my state of being, pray for me.

#hannibal #hannigram #nbc hannibal #murder husbands #will graham #hannibal lecter #meta #i haven't sleept

[grasshopperdoingdogpaddle]

Since we saw Jack meet good Jack, I'm curious, how do you think it would have gone down if Omi met evil Omi? What about good Chase meeting evil Chase?

If Omi met his mirror self, they would fight. Not with any animosity, they wouldn't even be arguing over anything.

Before Omi can say anything, Heylin Omi would just jump him and demand a match, and with Omi would reflexively defend himself, and since they're mirror images, they'd just be fighting and countering each other to the point of exhaustion. Omi would be trying to have a conversation inbetween blows at first in an effort to temper his other self, but halfway through, they both get really into it.

By the end, they're exchanging blows just as fast as their exchanging compliments about what amazing warriors each other is. Which is basically getting along.

Chase meeting his evil self would be much more complicated. They each sort of feels sorry for the other.

(Provided we're talking about 1500 year old good Chase from the alternate timeline. Past good Chase would look at his future evil self being powerful and commanding and successful and immediately be impressed and convinced that it really is the right path for him to take. He'd marvel at evil Chase, and evil Chase would reassure his past self that this is the best way to reach his potential-- and just temper it with a warning not to trust Hannibal.)

Evil Chase and Good Chase have complicated feelings about each other. There'd be some level of pity for the version of themselves that they each view as misguidedly wasting their potential. They'd still admire each other's strength and power, and they'd acknowledge their achievements are grand for their fields. They'd have a difficult time convincing the other that they're squandering their talents, since they're both firmly set in their beliefs.

It would be like the ideological roadblock between Thorfinn and Canute in Vinland Saga. They both see themselves as correct and powerful by their own standards, so there's nothing to debate. An immovable object and an unstoppable force.

They're just have a conversation that looks pretty cordial from the outside, but is secretly something of a passive-aggressive ideological banter that is just as destined to end in a stalemate as Omi's spar with his mirror version. Might break into a minor, short spar. But it ends with a similar begrudging respect on both sides as well.

Then they both set aside their differences to brag to each other about their respective Omis.

#xiaolin showdown #omi #chase young #good!chase #heylin!omi

[mybleedingboy]

Hannibal Fic Recs

for @raniofzepuchas (I'll make this short and only include my very favorites so I'm not overwhelming you with fics) (no particular order)

A Clutch at Balance by Devereauxs_Disease

Rating: E | Word Count: 25,466

When Will Graham storms into Hannibal's house muttering about kissing Alana Bloom, the good doctor makes Will an offer: Pretend to date Hannibal in order to prove to Alana that Will is not only stable but capable of being in a relationship. When Alana is convinced Will is the man of her dreams, Hannibal will step aside and Will can get his girl. What could possibly go wrong?

Really fun and balances that fun with some excellent writing. Spot on dynamic, fantastic chemistry.

highway 190 by occultiism

Rating: M | Word Count: 10,343

He has found the Devil and wants to live inside of him. There is no more room for God. / Chronological snapshots throughout Will Graham's life.

Arguably one of the best-written Hannibal fics (and fics in general) ever. Hard-hitting, painful throughout but like a punch that hits the knots right out of you. If that makes sense?

Five Times Hannibal Visits Will and One Time He's Already Home (or: Coffee Cake) by bones_2_be

Rating: E | Word Count: 82,385

When Will tells Hannibal to leave at the end of Digestivo, he goes. And then, a few years later, he shows back up. They have long conversations, drink a lot of wine, at the end of it all they find something that works.

Excellent progression. Love the characters in this. Again, great fucking writing. Restricted fic, so you'd have to be logged in.

The Mongoose and the Mouse by Hiding Now

Rating: E | Word Count: 109,582

With Mother's and Father's Day impending, Will has been feeling particularly irascible. He has parent issues (as do we all) so as a therapeutic exercise, Hannibal suggests something novel: a vacation together to recapture the childhood he never had. His caveats: Will must choose someplace he's never been, someplace he always wanted to go as a child. The idea is ridiculous. Will can only think of one place. But there is no way Hannibal will agree to go to a place where turkey legs are a staple, and cartoon characters offer hugs on every corner. Will calls his bluff. Hannibal calls it right back. OR ~Will and Hannibal spend a week at Walt Disney World for perfectly sound psychological reasons~

It's the disney fic! Always fun to read back.

each according to its kind by chaparral_crown

Rating: M | Word Count: 192,571

Will does the only reasonable thing that someone fresh out of a mental hospital with no support system does - he leaves, and goes on a road trip to the Pacific Northwest.

AU of Season 2. This is my favorite Hannibal fic, and one of the best-written at that. Every paragraph is rich in flavor. I would definitely eat this. This is the fic I recommend the most often.

their beaks not yet turned red by chaparral_crown

Rating: M | Word Count: 134,420

Will stares at the bird. The bird stares back. In its beak, a very finely embroidered cloth, and in that, the tiniest of soft fists pushing forward from a folded corner. “Don’t you dare,” Will says, crouching, hand that is not currently cradling an overly large pour of whiskey pointed at the bird to ward it off. --- After Hannibal is arrested and the trial dates are set, the stork visits Will Graham. With it, it brings a baby, a legally binding birth certificate, and a hope chest full of gifts for her. Nobody except Will thinks this is weird. (Alternatively, what if the Scarlet Letter was a dark romantic comedy?)

So good and heartfelt throughout. I wished this was canon.

Ravenous by rageprufrock

Rating: M | Word Count: 38,448

Whenever I go into a new fandom, I look for pru's works first. This was no exception, and it's so fucking good. It's a genuine thriller. There's no description, and pru doesn't tag, so I will let you go in blind. An exciting read, brilliantly written both stylistically, plot-wise, and character-wise. The dynamics here are wonderful !! Hard-recommend.

#hannibal #fic recs #hannibal fic recs #hannigram

[onlineproblems]

Beta Reading Slots open :) [2/5 available]

Contact: DM me for my email.

Content accepted: Sensitive subjects such as rape, incest, racism, homophobia, bigotry, etc. are fine IF handled intelligently -- not simply used for shock value, or obviously endorsed by the author. Please keep in mind I am not a sensitivity reader; I can't help you decide what to include or exclude, or how to approach certain topics. I simply encourage you to do your research.

I have the right to refuse any submission without giving a reason.

I accept any fandom as well as original fiction. I am most familiar with the following --

TV:

Twin Peaks

The X-Files

Doctor Who (2005)

Psych

Pushing Daisies

The Mentalist

Once Upon a Time

Bates Motel

Hannibal

The OA

Books:

Lord of the Rings & The Hobbit

Shadow & Bone, Six of Crows

A Court of Thorns and Roses series

The Witcher novels (as well as the games and the Netflix series)

Movies:

The Conjuring universe

Lord of the Rings trilogy (sorry, not The Hobbit or Rings of Power)

The Alien movie universe

What I can help with:

Grammar: punctuation, sentence structure, correct word usage, spelling, etc.

Flow: I can point out areas that might benefit from being fleshed out, shortened, or rearranged.

Style: suggestions for alternative words/phrases; highlight cliches or redundancies.

Time frame: I prioritize my real-life responsibilities. I'll let you know the soonest I can get back to you based on the length of the work and what you'd like me to do.

How to submit a request: Send me an email with "READING REQUEST" + your total wordcount + fandom (if applicable) in the subject line. In the message body, let me know what you want help with, if you have a deadline, and any other details you'd like me to know (US/UK spelling preferred? English not your first language? Under 18?). Attach your document (DOC, DOCX, MD, ODT, RTF only) or include a link to a Google Document with commenting/editing permissions enabled.

My creds: I have 3+ years of professional proofreading experience, and I've been beta reading on and off since I was 15. My undergraduate degree is in English Literature. I love working with writers of all levels, and I've collaborated with people from Europe, Africa, Asia, North and South America.

My process: I include positive feedback and comments about what I enjoyed and what I think you do really well. I can either make grammar corrections directly in the document, or leave them as "suggestions." More subjective changes will be included as comments in the margins. I may have questions for you if I'm uncertain about a section in the text -- I'll leave a note in the document and mention in to you when I reply to your email. Feel free to keep the conversation going!

#beta reader #fanfiction #original fiction #writing #proofreading

[desperatelyseekingcannibals]

Secrets in the Stables (Hannigram AU) - Shortfic

Explicit // M/M // Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter // Tags: Alternate Universe, different first meeting, dark Will Graham, roleplay, sexual roleplay, master/servant, stable boy roleplay, spit as lube, rough sex, dirty talk, secrets and suspicions - but in a horny way. Patreon Prompt Fill.

Will is working in the shed when Hannibal drops by...

Latest installment on my @hannibalbingo card: Will's Shed.

Secrets in the Stables (1.6k words):

“Will?” Hannibal called out when Will didn’t answer his door. His car was there, so perhaps he’d gone for a walk.

Hannibal was about to go back and wait in his own car, when he heard the unmistakable sound of dogs roughhousing and followed the noise to the back of the house. There the back door was open and the dogs were milling around between the house and the open door of the shed.

Hannibal smiled and started to walk towards the old barn-like structure of Will’s shed, his heart already pumping at the thought of seeing Will.

No one made him feel like Will Graham did, and no one in the world could ever be quite like Will Graham. He was singular, unique in both who he was and in how much Hannibal desired him.

They had met at a Quantico event. Hannibal’s invite had been thanks to previous consultancy work he had done with the FBI, and Will was - apparently forced - to be there as one of the teachers at the academy.

Hannibal had studied him for over an hour before introducing himself. Will Graham was, without a doubt, his apparent opposite. Where Hannibal was charismatic and personable, Mr Graham seemed to be avoiding company as much as he possibly could. No small feat at a social gathering such as it had been. Where Hannibal was polite and well spoken, Mr Graham was gruff and monosyllabic, using rudeness to avoid conversation.

Perhaps Hannibal saw the challenge in it at first, but then he saw something else. Something in the way Will Graham carried himself, the way he looked around the room with the same disdain that Hannibal felt. He looked like a predator. And that did really interest Hannibal.

Making conversation at that party had been difficult. Seeking Will out later at the academy and getting him to agree to a dinner date had been even more so. But, as they made love for the first time and Hannibal enjoyed Will’s animalistic energy, he knew it had all been worth it.

He was sure he’d finally met his match.

Continue reading on AO3

#hannibal lecter #hannibal #will graham #hannirgam #historical au #hannigram au #myfic #fanfic #hannibal fanfiction #Hannibal Bingo

[loveyouanyway]

about me and this blog

i'm nolan! they/he/she and if you use them all together, i will receive so much gender euphoria. adult 🥲 i'm agender. no gender, just vibes <3 demi-panromantic aspec 😌 east asian canadian :)

a huge simp but also insults are my love language. a silly loser guy who is sometimes cool and funny. yearning all the time 🫠

this blog is sometimes nsfw and mainly 911 with other stuff i love here and there

icon and header are mine 911 fanfic snippets | ao3 | my edits

i like to say my sexuality for media is also pan because i'm attracted to music/shows/movies regardless of their genre lmao

my fandoms include (but not limited to) 9-1-1, shameless, friends, umbrella academy, brooklyn 99, hannibal, yellowjackets, the wilds, sex education, community, young royals and much more

gay horror enthusiast 🖤 please give me queer horror movie/tv recs

some music artists i love: lorde, renee rapp, taylor swift, conan gray, maisie peters sabrina carpenter, chappell roan, arctic monkeys, clairo, girl in red, noah kahan, lizzy mcalpine, nirvana, yungblud, mgk, def leppard, maneskin, ac/dc, 5SOS, waterparks, paramore

basically i listen to all the variants of alternative / indie / pop / rock but i do listen to selective songs from pretty much any music genre jskdjd

chat and keysmash about anything i mentioned here or on my blog with me!! send me fic and gif prompts!! give me tv/movie, song and fic recs!! or just say hi and we can try our best to start and continue a conversation sdjskdf

my discord is buzzcut.season if you want to chat there since tumblr messages kinda suck

#nolan nonsense #personal #name change #time to change my tags lol #about #intro post

[theminecraftbox]

17, 24, 25? :)

17. What are some of your favourite c!Dream fics?

here's some

24. When/how did you become a c!Dream apologist?

Back in summer 2021, being a box aficionado, I heard tell of a particularly fucked up minecraft prison. I actually first consumed dsmp content through various prison fics, assuming I wouldn't truly get into the source material. Something immediately struck and disquieted me, which was the level of dehumanization that some of these fics treated Dream with. There was basically a whole genre to the tune of "well, obviously this prison is hellish and all, but well if you think about it, it's actually a moral grey area! No one is deserving of torture, Even A Monster Like c!Dream, who obviously deserves some abuse, just not this much 😇"

Like it's this strangely specific, queasy tone. But I figured, hey, he must be a SUPER evil guy, we've probably got a Hannibal situation going on, and I can dig that. So then I watched the source content with that expectation. And then..... well look, sorry but exile and doomsday are pretty fucking underwhelming coming in with my expectations primed like THAT. Dream should have done more crimes actually.

25. If c!Dream had to join an existing/former DSMP country or faction, which one would you choose for him?

Las Nevadas for the funnies :) could be a guard dog type beat, or conversely, could be Dream doing a political takeover rather than a physical one to get his revenge on Quackity.

Alternatively: Sam's utopia island creation. :)

#discourse #ask game

[juju-or-anya]

I was creating an Excel spreadsheet with ideas for some Hannigram and Weyler one-shots I wanted to write for the upcoming months. When I reached December, my head got filled with fanfic ideas centered around "White Christmas" theme, but there's a tiny little problem: I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT A "WHITE CHRISTMAS" IS.

Let me explain, where I live, December is summer, specifically in my hometown (not where I currently live, as I moved to another province for university), and it tends to reach 45°C, which is about 113°F in Fahrenheit. In other words, it's scorching hot, and there's nothing "white" about it. My Christmases are spent having a barbecue dinner at my grandma's place, which is a farmhouse outside the town of Tafi Viejo, in Tucumán. We sit about 4 meters away from the table, and there's a pool where we go to refresh ourselves every 20 minutes because our bodies sweat like crazy in the heat. After eating the barbecue and the additional 50 dishes brought by all the guests, we have Pan Dulce and sweet treats (candied peanuts, chocolates, nougat, "mantecol," and the best homemade Dulce de Leche ice cream). Then comes the toast, and we distract the kids with fireworks bought by the neighbors because my family doesn't spend money on fireworks. While the children are entertained with that, my uncle Andres dresses up as Santa Claus, and we place the gifts under the poorly decorated Christmas tree. We then open the presents, and as you grow older, receiving a bag of socks becomes a fortunate gift, as the Argentine economy is tight. That's a typical Christmas in Argentina.

Don't think that Argentinians don't celebrate; it's just that we do celebrate Christmas, but we don't make big plans. It's more about getting together with family and friends to have dinner and share. Come on the 25th of May or the 9th of July, or even during Carnivals. We love celebrations, but our Christmas isn't exactly white, starting with the fact that there's no snow, not even by chance.

I'm going to create headcanon where Hannigram and Weyler are Argentinians, popular, and patriotic.

This is my headcanon for my Argentinean versions of Hannigram:

In an alternate scenario, during a peaceful and picturesque Christmas, the mastermind of cannibalism, Hannibal Lecter, and the empathetic yet tormented detective, Will Graham, find a temporary and fascinating truce as they embark on an Argentinean barbecue in the midst of the holiday season. Both have put their usual disputes and problems aside, at least for the moment, and have decided to share a unique culinary experience. Hannibal, always a lover of fine cuisine, cannot help but be intrigued by the tradition of the Argentinean barbecue. Though accustomed to refined and elaborate dishes, he is drawn to the simplicity and artistry behind the barbecue. He delights in the idea of savoring top-quality cuts of meat, perfectly cooked on a grill. As he watches the expert grill masters prepare the meat, his eyes shine with genuine interest and appreciation for the skill of the Argentinean cooks. Will, on the other hand, has always been a man of simple tastes and a more tranquil nature. Although not as enthusiastic about meat as Hannibal, he appreciates the cultural and social connection surrounding the Argentinean barbecue. He immerses himself in the relaxed and friendly atmosphere around the grill and enjoys the sense of community that this tradition fosters. As the hours pass and the meats slowly cook, Hannibal and Will share deep and sincere conversations while enjoying the exquisite meals. Hannibal, always the skilled manipulator, finds in Will an unexpected companion, someone with whom he can share thoughts and emotions without fear of being judged for his darker nature. Will, on the other hand, finds a strange sense of peace and understanding in Hannibal's presence, an intellectual connection that, in some way, he comes to comprehend and accept. Both are surprised by the harmony they manage to find during this special evening. For a moment, they set aside their roles of hunter and hunted, and simply become two individuals sharing an unusual yet wonderful moment in their lives.

This is my headcanon for my Argentinean versions of Weyler:

Wednesday Addams, the charming and dark girl from the Addams family, lives in the old Gothic church in Recoleta, Autonomous City of Buenos Aires. Despite the unusual appearance and gloomy atmosphere of her home, Wednesday finds beauty in the darkness and peculiarity that surrounds her. She is a clever young woman, with a sharp wit and a fascination for the macabre and the strange. On the other hand, Tyler, the boy from Cululú, is kind and gentle, and he is the son of the town's police commissioner. Although his life in Cululú is more peaceful and conventional, he is drawn to the mysterious aura of Wednesday and her family. When they met, Wednesday found in Tyler a light in her darkness, while he found in her a sense of excitement and adventure he had never experienced before. Despite the differences in their worlds, Wednesday and Tyler discovered that they share a strange connection and a unique way of seeing life. Christmas in Cululú became a special occasion for them as they were able to blend Argentinean holiday traditions with the dark and enchanting touch of the Addams family. In Cululú, Wednesday and Tyler participated in the typical celebrations, but with a distinctive twist. They decorated the main square with gothic ornaments and candles instead of bright lights, and they enjoyed a Christmas dinner with exquisite dishes with sinister yet delicious names. In this way, Christmas in Cululú becomes a unique and enriching experience for everyone involved, with a charming blend of Argentinean traditions and the dark and peculiar touch of the Addams family. Together, they share laughter, adventures, and a special connection that transcends their differences and enriches their lives in a truly special and unique way.

I can't believe how much I'm laughing at this silliness I just created.

#hannibal lecter #will graham #will x hannibal #hannibal x will #hannigram #hanibal #tyler galpin #wednesday addams #wednesday and tyler #wednesday x tyler #tyler x wednesday #wednesday netflix #headcanon #weyler #wyler

[strings0fcontrol]

Hannigram – Post-Fall (19)

Will drew in a sharp breath and took a determined step forward, moving toward the next memory. He cast a fleeting glance up at Miu before extending his hand to commence the scene.

With no alternative left, Will found himself ensconced within the confines of Lecter's office, a realm dominated by towering bookshelves that had undoubtedly been intended as Graham's vantage point, while Lecter paced gracefully below. It was a frail attempt to create a physical chasm, a desperate bid to regain his footing after the doctor's earlier psychological conquest in Jack's office. The library's volumes provided a semblance of sanctuary, a refuge behind which he could momentarily obscure himself from the looming presence of the psychiatrist. But even when he hid at the farthest corner in the room, the highest point up, Hannibal was coming towards him. In the backdrop, his doppelgängers engaged in whispered discourse, compelling Will to sweep his gaze across the room in search of Miu's elusive presence. Yet, it remained cunningly concealed until his scrutiny fell upon the audacious choice of 'candy cane' curtains adorning Hannibal's office. From within the garish drapery, Miu seemed to materialize, draped in a matching red and gray color that sent an unsettling chill down Will's spine. A candy cane demon, what a delight. It was a vision that promised to infiltrate his nightmares, as if the peculiar choice of curtains hadn't already achieved its disquieting effect. The ability to change color, Will mused. Great. That was a notable addition to the burgeoning list of observations he had been mentally compiling about the entity. It was clearly a breed apart from the other spectral manifestations he had encountered. Not undead—yet, since he hadn't succeeded in dispatching it. The fact that it appeared to possess a mind of its own was the most disconcerting aspect of all. This creature was proving to be vastly more intricate and multifaceted than any of his prior encounters. It was as if his demons were undergoing an evolution of sorts, or perhaps, his own psyche had finally snapped entirely.

He half-heartedly clapped his hands together, pivoting his body towards the unfolding scene, his demeanor exuding the enthusiasm of someone who yearned desperately to be anywhere else. Grudgingly, he allowed himself to observe.

"What’s that?" He could hear his own voice calling from above, while Hannibal slid a paper onto the table.

"Your psychological evaluation," he spoke softly, but loudly enough for Will to hear, while his gaze ascended to him, before it descended upon the paper, reading his own writing. "You are totally functional and more or less sane." Then he paused, his gaze smugly ascending. "Well done." The doctor’s gaze lowered to the paper, and he carefully placed it back onto the small glass table with precision. Displeased, Will tilted his head in a disapproving manner, his steps measured and deliberate as he moved towards Hannibal from above, his penetrating gaze fixed firmly upon the man below.

"Did you just rubber-stamp me?"

"Yes. Jack Crawford may lay his weary head to rest knowing he didn’t break you and our conversation can proceed unobstructed by paperwork," Hannibal replied, his voice devoid of notable inflection. However, his hand, in an intriguing display, initially retreated into his pocket, as if harboring a secret, only to be abruptly revealed as it casually hung at his side. All the while, his gaze followed Will.

Hannibal’s keen interest lay in the prospect of further dissecting Will's psyche. At that moment, the state of Will's mind held little actual importance for him. Once more, Will could feel a bubble of anger pop, oozing like pus from an infected wound. "Jack thinks that I need therapy," Will enunciated each word deliberately, his measured steps guiding him with caution around the folded ladder obstructing his path to the enigmatic black books adorned with colored dots, nestled toward the room's center. Unquestionably, these volumes contained Hannibal's notes on his patients, all meticulously handwritten, impeccably organized, categorized, and cataloged. "What you need is a way out of dark places when Jack sends you there," Hannibal remarked, and at those words, Will abruptly turned to fixate his gaze on Miu. It was almost as if his expression silently conveyed, ‘Did you catch that?’ His eyes widened, a sarcastic smile tugging at his lips.

"Last time he sent me into a dark place, I brought something back," Will's voice filtered into the scene from above, and once more, Graham shot another glance at Miu. Yep, he could definitely check that off his list.

"A surrogate daughter?" Hannibal's gaze descended, measured and deliberate, as if he were dissecting Will's emotional landscape. His choice of words were highly peculiar. The psychiatrist approached the desk with an unhurried grace, his fingers adjusting a slender tome while he seemed poised for Will's inevitable response. However, no response was given.

"You saved Abigail Hobbs' life. You also orphaned her. That comes with certain emotional obligations, regardless of empathy disorders." The implications were clear, heavy with gravity. And there he stood, prodding at Will's vulnerabilities with the finesse of a seasoned manipulator.

Will's eyes narrowed. 'You also orphaned her,' he mentally repeated, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. How cunning, he mused, the art of psychological manipulation displayed before him in all its glory.

"You were there," Will’s shadow replied, his voice steady, his stance stalwart. His eyes shifted from the books to Hannibal's face, a challenge gleaming within their depths. "You saved her life too. Do you feel obligated?" 

Hannibal, in response, straightened his posture. The stack of papers on the desk ceased to hold his interest. His wide, penetrating gaze locked onto Will's, an unspoken understanding passing between them.

"Yes," Lecter replied, his voice a soft, measured cadence that hung in the air like a weighty secret. He paused, allowing the gravity of his words to settle before he continued, his words quickening once more. "I feel a staggering amount of obligation." Another pause, his gaze unblinking, yet subtly shifting away from Will, as if seeking refuge in the shadows of the room. "I feel responsibility." There was a tremor in the word 'responsibility,' a fracture in his composure, a discordance that betrayed his inner turmoil. "I've fantasized about scenarios where my actions may have allowed a different fate for Abigail Hobbs." Oh, this line from Hannibal had just been gifted with a new layer of meaning. Will's lips curled into a smile, though it bore no resemblance to mirth; it was the expression of simmering fury.

Perhaps, if he hadn't placed that accursed call—

"Jack thinks Abigail Hobbs helped her dad kill those girls," his previous self persisted, and Will's gaze abruptly swiveled, colliding with the unassailable truth that Jack had been correct all along, right from the very start, and how resolutely he had shielded his eyes from that reality.

Hannibal regarded Will with a curious intensity. His countenance remained enigmatic, but it was the subtle, inquisitive flicker in his ever-moving eyes that spoke volumes.

"How does that make you feel?" The psychiatrist probed, swift but composed in his utterance.

"How does it make you feel?" Will deflected, his eyebrows arching, his eyes widening in an exaggerated display of curiosity. With a defiant flair, he couldn't resist the opportunity to be sassy, sending the message right back to its sender.

And then it dawned on him, that Hannibal must have taken a liking to him. Otherwise, his sass would have likely earned him an immediate spot on the menu, a culinary retribution for his audacious behavior, a punishment inflicted for little more than his disdain for therapy, his resentment toward Jack for sending him here, and his utter abhorrence for Dr. Lecter, that insufferably pretentious, know-it-all, infuriating doctor. Such insolence couldn't have been aimed at just any therapist trying to make a modest living. No, it was aimed squarely at Lecter, who had irked him from the very beginning, and he was hurling his spiteful disdain right into the face of the man like a brazen cat marking territory by peeing on a carpet.

It struck him with a pang of remorse, making him acutely conscious of the unkindness he had exhibited. He realized the pain he must have inflicted, dismissing Lecter as uninteresting when, in truth, all Lecter desired was Will's attention, to be truly seen by someone capable of comprehending the depths of his being. The sting of that realization cut deep.

How many lives might have been spared had he refrained from incessantly provoking Lecter?

If only he could turn back the hands of time, begin anew from that very first encounter, and mold their relationship in a different way. In an alternate universe, perhaps, he had been gentler, more considerate, and far kinder to Hannibal.

Miu observed with a sharp curiosity, its eyes tracing the subtle shifts in Graham's expression. It then made a slight adjustment in its gaze, maintaining an attentive watch as the scene unfolded before it.

"I find it vulgar," Hannibal replied, averting his gaze, his fingers lightly twitching with faint agitation. It wasn't the response he had anticipated. He resembled a perplexed cat, earning little more than indifference from its owner after recklessly knocking a vase from the edge of the table.

"Me too," Will agreed absentmindedly, his sense of indignation solidifying, and with it, a sense of security that unwittingly paved the way for Hannibal's next subtle strike. "And entirely possible," Lecter added suddenly. Oh, there was a sharp curve right there, and it appeared that everyone else had seen it coming, except for Will.

"It's not what happened." Will nearly snapped, the words tinged with frustration. It was precisely what he fervently wished had never occurred. He averted his gaze from Hannibal, hands thrust into his pockets, his entire being recoiling from the painful reality of that possibility.

"Jack will ask her when she wakes up, or he’ll have one of us ask her," Hannibal added with a seemingly innocuous statement, deftly redirecting Will's emotions toward Jack and compelling Will to deflect yet another emotional strike.

"Is this therapy, or a support group?" Graham's tone betrayed a trace of defensiveness, and Hannibal continued to observe him with the same enchanted curiosity one might have while watching the moon's orbit. Will's defense amused him; it was a shrewd maneuver. It prompted Hannibal to once again adapt his approach.

“It's whatever you need it to be," Lecter responded, caught in a delicate dance between awe, amusement, and a trace of melancholy. His lips curved into a subtle smile, and his eyes bore witness to something he found beautiful. Fixated upon Will Graham, utterly entranced.

Will had almost found solace in the unexpected silence, anticipating the session's conclusion. However, Hannibal, ever the maestro of parting words, refused to yield the final act.

"And, Will," Hannibal commenced, capturing Graham's attention once more. "... the mirrors in your mind can reflect the best of yourself," Lecter paused for emphasis. "Not the worst of someone else."

In fact, this realization prompted a momentary mental pause as the scene froze in place. The mirrors in his mind could reflect the best of him, not the worst of someone else. His gaze instinctively shifted to Miu. Was that the ‘best of him’? The entity possessed a formidable presence, akin to the cosmic terrors like Cthulhu and other eldritch monstrosities. It left scant room for hope that anything a human could muster would inflict harm upon it. However, from whatever abyss it had emerged, it did not appear to showcase his ‘best.’

Guarding his crotch with a makeshift shield formed by his hands, he ventured forth with an elongated, near-parodic stride toward the feline. Every nuance of his body language was exaggerated, as if he were a performer on a surreal stage. This bewildering display momentarily disarmed the creature, rendering it temporarily transfixed. Its gaze narrowed ever so slightly, a subtle ripple of curiosity and wariness coursing through its visage. Seeking refuge in sarcasm, a well-worn armor of denial and evasion—yes, this was a tactic the cat recognized all too well. It suggested that Will was in a battle with his own emotions, most likely grappling with his guilt. He wielded every defense in his arsenal to deflect the assault on his composure. As he adorned the mask of nonchalance, humor, and brusqueness, Miu responded with a subtle yet telling exhale, a sound that seemed to escape the confines of its chest, causing its once expansive demeanor to subtly deflate, much like the sagging of weary shoulders. It could discern the vulnerability that Will was concealing.

Its lower lids quivered in contemplative scrutiny, observing Will with a measured and attentive gaze.

This time, the scene refused to dissolve, and Miu's gaze ensnared Hannibal with a stern intensity. Then, it gifted Will with the smallest inclination of its head, an ephemeral gesture that carried a fleeting touch of solace.

Will's gaze ascended with a deliberate slowness, capturing the feline in his scrutiny. It was as though he sought to penetrate the obscure depths of its intent, grappling with the question of whether it was toying with his vulnerability or genuinely extending a hand of comfort. Suspicion hung in the air like an ominous storm cloud.

His eyes, dark pools of contemplation, darted from the icy visage of Hannibal Lecter to Miu, the provocateur who wielded its inquisitive gaze like a weapon. Will felt the currents of his turbulent emotions ebb and flow, a tempestuous sea churning within him. The icy veneer of his composure began to crack, revealing the smoldering fury lurking beneath.

He approached the chillingly lively image of Hannibal, that fiendish cannibal who had danced on the precipice of his sanity for far too long. Did he desire to strike down this grotesque phantom of his past, or was there an inexplicable yearning, a perverse craving, to embrace it all once more?

A sardonic smirk slithered onto his lips, a wry manifestation of the tumultuous battle raging within his psyche. Miu, the astute puppeteer of his innermost conflicts, seemed to take pleasure in the discord it had meticulously sown, didn't it? It had sensed his momentary lapse, that fleeting instant of vulnerability when he almost succumbed to the lure of his own demons. As his gaze shifted towards the cat, his countenance bore a smugness that suggested he had detected the trap long before it was sprung, an expression of one who believed himself to be one step ahead. However, that self-satisfied look was abruptly erased when he met the gentle gaze in Miu's eyes. It was a gaze that possessed a softness that completely disarmed Will, as though it had reached right into his core and slapped the defensiveness out of him. In that instant, he felt a pang of remorse, a bitter acknowledgment of his own unwarranted skepticism. Congratulations to Miu for achieving that remarkable feat.

He swiftly averted his gaze, fixing his blank stare upon Hannibal.

Will drew his cheeks inward, a subtle contraction of his countenance, as he pursed his lips. Was the feline truly toying with him, or was his own paranoia weaving illusions of deceit?

Goddammit.

At this point, he just wanted to lay face-first on the floor and scream. With one hand raised, his lips forming a taut, inscrutable line, the outcome of the internal struggle within his mind remained shrouded in ambiguity. He slapped his palm upon Hannibal's chest, a hesitant gesture caught in the midst of conflicting emotions. But as he made contact with the living warmth beneath his hand, he felt his fingers curling into Lecter's shirt, an instinctual response that betrayed him. Will was acutely aware that he was losing the battle on both fronts.

His fingers encountered the tie, and for a fleeting moment, he entertained the thought of yanking it with enough force to choke the life out of the image of Hannibal before him, as if punishing this spectral apparition could somehow alleviate his inner turmoil. Even though this frozen visage felt astonishingly lifelike, he understood that it was merely a vestige of his memory, not a tangible reality. Nevertheless, it exerted the same eerie magnetic pull that gradually drew him nearer.

Will couldn't ignore the fatigue that had enveloped his defenses, how they yearned to crumble under the weight of his emotional exhaustion. He sensed an irresistible tug, an unrelenting force pulling him toward Hannibal's image. He felt it, the overwhelming desire to surrender, to melt into the phantom’s embrace and be held tightly, if only for a fleeting moment of solace.

Even the act of breathing had become arduous, and the longer his gaze remained fixed upon the haunting image of Lecter, the more he sensed himself succumbing to its allure. He was acutely aware of the peril that lurked within this enchanting illusion, yet despite his better judgment, he found himself inching closer, drawn in by the seductive danger it represented.

He relented partially, finding a precarious balance by leaning against Hannibal's side rather than fully embracing him. However, even this limited contact delivered a devastating blow to his fragile defenses. As he caught a waft of the psychiatrist’s distinctive scent and basked in the comforting warmth it exuded, Will's resolve wavered, and he began to sway, teetering on the edge of losing his footing in the whirlwind of emotions that had engulfed him. He yearned for it to be real with an intensity that bordered on desperation, and it was precisely that perilous notion, akin to a tiny droplet of water hitting the taut surface of a barrel poised to burst and overflow, which delivered the fatal blow to his tenuous resistance.

His fingers curled, almost claw-like, as they clung to Hannibal's form, and his once-resolute expression fractured, trembling like fragile glass, as tears welled up and streamed down his face, marking the dissolution of his crumbling composure.

He had half-anticipated Miu to swiftly seize the advantage, extracting his emotions with merciless efficiency. Yet, to his surprise, the feline simply observed, a faint crease between its eyes conveying the message that it, too, was silently sharing in his suffering.

Its eyes gleamed with an uncanny brilliance, yet they remained dry, steadfastly unyielding as Will's own tears flowed freely, and he succumbed to further emotional fracture. Miu retained its unwavering facade, a stoic mask that betrayed no hint of vulnerability. Monsters, by their nature, don't shed tears; they mete out suffering.

However, Will wasn't deceived. Beneath that enigmatic countenance, he sensed the palpable anguish that Miu concealed. It didn't appear to thrive on pain in its raw form. Instead, it drew sustenance from the wellsprings of anger and hatred, but sorrow seemed to leave it untouched.

Extracting himself from Hannibal's warmth was an agony in itself, but the force compelling him toward the feline eclipsed the pain. So he took those steps toward Miu, a decision that left the creature visibly bewildered, its typical inscrutability momentarily shattered. The confusion deepened as it felt Will's arms enveloping its tall form, marking the first overt sign of perplexity he had ever witnessed in Miu. It was a victory, though not one he intended to flaunt before the entity.

Overwhelmed by the unexpected turn of events, Miu tensed, its gaze darting frantically as it searched for an escape route or a suitable response. Just as Will had suspected, it seemed entirely unaccustomed to the idea of positive emotions or receiving comfort. After all, who would embrace their demons with a hug? Its eyes, the largest Will had ever witnessed, seemed to undergo several transformations. The pupils oscillated, alternately constricting into slits and then expanding, as if its entire consciousness were caught in a glitching loop of confusion.

Its twitching visage struggled to reconcile the myriad emotions and thoughts swirling within its mind, unable to find a common denominator. Affection, it appeared, was akin to a virulent contagion, and Miu found itself progressively succumbing to its grip, much like falling prey to a cold, gradually withering under Will's tender touch.

Its design was a testament to its intent: to annihilate and remain impervious. With raw intellect to command the battlefield and emotional acumen to manipulate, it was a formidable adversary. Yet, in its creation, a chink in its armor had been left unattended—its vulnerability to positive emotions, a weakness ripe for exploitation.

To master manipulation, it delved deep into emotions, immersing itself intensely. However, this very immersion left the door ajar for external influence to seep through.

All of its formidable might, all its malevolence, would be nullified when poisoned with the elixir of love.

There was something vaguely amusing about the situation, but Will chose to savor the moment in silence, his hold around Miu growing firmer. Over time, the creature abandoned its futile search for an escape and begrudgingly surrendered to its fate. It tentatively lifted its arms, allowing them to encircle Will in return, forming an unexpected and cautious embrace.

It marked the first tender contact he had experienced in an eternity, and despite its origin in a possible adversary, it stirred an unfamiliar yet comforting sensation within him.

Indeed, this whole situation was undeniably strange. Nevertheless, the entity decided against vocalizing any complaints and instead opted to endure the unusual gesture, tolerating this newfound intimacy.

The scene underwent a transition, transporting them back to the confines of the memory palace. Miu glanced down at Will, half-expecting that the moment called for them to part ways. However, as Will's grip remained unyielding, it found itself once more ensnared by confusion. If he persisted in embracing it so tightly, he might just catch a cold from its frigid skin. It observed him shiver, yet he refused to release his grip. In an attempt to convey the notion that Graham should release his grip, the entity made a subtle attempt to wriggle free, but this only seemed to spur him to tighten his embrace further. Miu's ears perked forward, and from its elevated vantage point, it observed the situation with a curious fascination. Will held it with a force that could have easily crushed mortal bones, a fact that didn't perturb Miu in the least; rather, it found this display of strength to be utterly interesting.

One of its colossal hands slowly ascended, its elongated claws quivering, and Will observed it from the corner of his eye, stalwart in his determination to hold on, even if the entity chose to lash out. Yet, when he sensed the gentle caress of its palm, he released a trembling breath, his apprehensions momentarily quelled. With a gentle head pat, it resigned itself to its current predicament once more. As its gaze wandered over Will's abundant locks, it couldn't help but feel a sense of curiosity. Its fingers carefully combed through the curly strands, savoring the surprisingly soft texture and finding a strange delight in the experience. It endeavored to reciprocate the gesture. Awkwardly.

This, he realized, would be his strategic opening.

Will followed his instincts, mirroring the way cats enjoyed being scratched at the base of their tails. Although the great feline lacked a tail, he knew precisely where to find that spot – the one where nerves were especially sensitive – and he gently lowered his hand to scratch it. In an unguarded moment, a soft purr slipped from Miu's throat, causing its entire body to vibrate momentarily. However, just as swiftly as the sound had escaped, it retracted, sucked back in, as if the purr had never occurred, leaving behind a facade of composure. He could sense the many claws on his head, acutely aware of their tension, as if they were poised on the brink of embedding themselves deep into his skull at the slightest hint of a too-loud breath. Graham found himself momentarily frozen in that charged silence. Though he yearned to say something, he sensed the piercing intensity of the gaze from above, a gaze that seared into his neck, and he wisely refrained from provoking it further or daring to glance upward. 

Naturally, there remained but one unequivocal course of action.

In an audaciously defiant moment, verging on reckless, he resolutely scratched the sensitive spot once more, provoking a sharp tremor that rippled up the cat's spine. He could almost perceive the internal turmoil wracking Miu's form, as its body writhed in a desperate struggle to smother the urge to vocalize, waging a seemingly futile war against its own impulses. He could also discern the reflexive contractions in its throat, as if it were striving to stifle both the sound and its very self before anything could slip free. Preferring self-imposed strangulation over surrendering to the temptation to purr. How quintessentially and diabolically demonic of it.

At least, that would offer a revealing test of its lung capacity, Will mused inwardly, his lips curving into a sly smile that he struggled to contain. With great effort, he refrained from succumbing to outright giggles of his own. He continued to lavish more scratches upon Miu, who writhed and contorted as if in the throes of electrical shock.

Finally, after an excruciatingly long stretch, Miu summoned the concentration necessary to teleport to safety. It reappeared several meters away, well out of Will's scratching reach, its feline features etched with an unmistakable blend of righteous indignation and offense. Yet, it was precisely that expression that pushed Will past the brink, and his laughter spluttered forth uncontrollably. His frame leaned over, consumed by the sheer hilarity of the moment. He had valiantly endeavored to stifle it, but that amusement had erupted reflexively, leaving him gasping for breath and tears streaming down his face from the sheer intensity of his mirth.

The demon was ticklish. HAH!

Miu, in the midst of its silent contemplation of a myriad of methods for murder and the art of human flesh preparation, couldn't help but feel certain that if Will persisted in his current fit of wheezing, he might just manage to do himself in.

Yet, it marked the first time in a long while that he had genuinely laughed. Even though it came at the expense of the demon, despite the outward display of offense and aggression it projected, deep down, there was a sense of satisfaction in witnessing him finally find some laughter. The casually tilted head and the slight slouch of his shoulders gave it away, and for a fleeting moment, he could have sworn he detected the faintest hint of a smile, almost imperceptible.

Nonetheless, Miu was still a cat at heart. It indignantly turned its back to him, pouting as it settled into a seated position. Although it lacked a physical tail, there was an unmistakable sense of an invisible appendage impatiently tapping against the ground.

Will approached cautiously, his gaze sweeping up and down its form, a faint quiver of amusement playing upon his lips.

"Will you enlighten me, Miu, as to why you've chosen to reveal my memories?" he inquired, earning a sharp, sidelong glance from the feline before it averted its gaze.

In that case, he concluded, he would need to apply a touch more torment. Instead of offering an apology, Graham opted for a swift jackknife dive toward Miu's rear, promptly resuming his teasing scratches. But when the feline reacted, it was akin to a nuclear explosion in both speed and intensity. The man instinctively ducked, his hair nearly grazing the force that surged past him. A moment later, he heard a distant rumble, akin to a colossal structure collapsing somewhere far off. Both Miu and Will found themselves staring at each other in mutual astonishment, the cat’s outstretched palm suspended midair. It became abundantly clear that backhands from Miu were nothing short of lethal and possessed the power to topple entire buildings. A valuable lesson, indeed. Will rolled onto his back, his hands raised in surrender, as though held at gunpoint.

"I yield," he declared.

#bryan fuller #hannibal lecter #hannibal x will #hannigram #hugh dancy #mads mikkelsen #murder husbands #nbc hannibal #nbc hannigram #will graham #post fall hannigram #hannigram fanfiction #hannibal fanfiction #hannibal #hannibal fic #ao3 fanfic #fanfiction #archive of our own #fanfic #fanfic writing #fan fiction #my fic #fiction #my fanfic #doctor lecter #dr lecter

[fatalism-and-villainy]

“Primavera” is not a favourite episode of mine (not just in it being of a piece with my overall dissatisfaction with how Abigail was handled, but that’s certainly part of it). But - especially after watching the audio commentary - I really appreciate what they were going for with it. (That’s a sentiment I frequently have re: season 3 - I can’t ever say the concepts weren’t great.)

Because I love the way it plays with the concept of imagined worlds, and forking paths-style alternate realities, and with the implication that Will believes in the multiverse (“what I believe is closer to science fiction than anything in the Bible”). The show in general really ran off with the mind palace conceit from the books and honed in on the vivid, immerse potential of imagination. Mentally constructed realities, like Will’s imagining of the murders, often play as more richly saturated, more real, than reality. And the seductive power of imagination often crashes up against its perils - like in Will hallucinating killing Abigail near the end of season 1, another moment that plays with the unsettling inability to differentiate what’s real and what isn’t.

The first three episodes of season 3 are deliberately immersive, right off the bat - the broader plot and stakes of the story are ignored at first in lieu of dreamy, atmospheric character pieces that foreground their own fantastic elements and constructed potential (Hannibal saying “once upon a time” [cue curtains opening]; “all sorrows can be borne if you put them in a story”; etc.). But “Primavera” is perhaps the most immersive (and therefore disorientating) of all of them. Because, yes, plenty of the events “actually happen” within the world of the show - Will going to Palermo, meeting Pazzi, almost encountering Hannibal, etc. But it’s possibly the closest we come to spending an entire episode inside a character’s head - instead of just seeing flashes of Will’s imaginings, all of the events feel like they’re being viewed through his eyes, and what’s real gets subsumed within the fantasy he’s spinning for himself.

Not just in the presence of Abigail, although Will constructing everything he experiences through the lens of this alternate reality in which she survives is a big part of that effect (and the uncanny qualities of their first conversation aren’t even apparent until “Aperitivo” two episodes later, when Chilton has the same lines Abigail had, and you realize that you’re retroactively seen Will’s wishful thinking playing right before your eyes). But the chapel itself feels unreal, knowing as we do that it’s the lobby of Hannibal’s mind palace, and that Will feels closer to Hannibal there. Given how near-claustrophobically character-centric the episode is, and how so much of the action is confined to its interiors, the chapel doesn’t feel like a real place so much as a projection of Will’s thoughts and imaginings re: Hannibal.

I often see speculation that a season 4 would have included a lot of mind palace content, and I think this episode is one of the clearest indications of how they might have wanted to push the envelope further with the show’s concepts there. Specifically, I think the alternate realities conceit that gets touched on would have featured more heavily - not in the sense that the show would have gone full science fiction (Bryan was always determined to keep the supernatural elements ambiguous and symbolic), but in the sense that it would delve deeper into the tension that always existed between whether what we were seeing was real, or a hallucination, or just the product of a very vivid imagination - not just through individual images, but entire affective and experiential planes. So much of season 3 feels transitional to me, like the show untethering itself from the police procedural format and pivoting fully towards experimentalism. This episode feels like a trial run at that.

#hannibal #hannibal meta #primavera #this got longer than expected (my slogan) #i think also... the tension between hallucination and imagination is like #the way this episode plays it it feels like will was always aware that abigail was dead #and was purposefully maintaining the illusion otherwise #he's not surprised at all just resigned #which is why it never feels quite right to call her a 'hallucination' #and after the encephalitis is treated the show is deliberately unclear whether will is actually 'seeing' his visions #or if they're just visual symbolism for the viewer representing more abstract though processes #or just something in between #but this feels different and more deliberate. actively wielding his imagination #in kind of a questionable self-deluding way #will graham #hannibal talk

[somecallmemalice]

In an alternate universe, the Addams family is fascinated with the Chesapeake Ripper. Meanwhile, Gomez and Morticia Addams go to a dinner party hosted by a doctor they met at a charity opera performance. It would be Hannibal's most confusing dinner party ever.

1. Morticia would be delighted by Hannibal's dishes, complimenting his seasoning approach to human liver and the fantastic wine pairing. Hannibal decides to kill them because they know, but at the same time, he can't bring himself to do it. Their praise inflates his ego, and honestly, he just really enjoyed discussing his craft. Morticia even calls Grandmama so they can give Hannibal their great aunt Gertrude Addams's Human Kidney Crumble recipe.

2. Once Morticia and Gomez realized his victims were unwilling, they testify against him in court out of a sense of civic duty. None of Lecter's previous dinner guests have leftovers that can be tested to confirm that yes, it was people that Lecter fed them. Gomez and Morticia testify that the food he fed them was indeed human, that he admitted to it, and can even corroborate this with the recipe they gave Lector, which plainly states that human flesh is a part of the recipe. Hannibal considers not destroying the recipe his greatest mistake. Even tough it was delicious. While there were never any doubts about Hannibal's guilt, their testimony does make things go faster.

3. Since the Addamses didn't hold out for immunity and just told the truth, they are charges as accessories after the fact. Gomez refuses to take the plea bargain because they didn't KNOW that the food had been unwillingly harvested.

4. Gomez defends Morticia and himself, citing everything from medieval codes to the Custom of the Sea, including a 4 day tanget discussing the legal and moral implications of taking meat from creatures that cannot consent. Legal professors attend his arguments. While his bizarre legal defense has no chance of succeeding, it's also kind of theoretically brilliant.

5. There is no way the prosecution can lose. Morticia and Gomez admitted, multiple times, to knowingly eating human flesh. It's a easy win. But the prosecution keeps offering up plea deals because the case is taking forever. The prosecutors can't decide if Gomez's defense is a wily stalling tactic or a genuine defense. Either way, he's dragging the case out and wasting time, and the prosecution just WANTS IT TO BE OVER.

6. This desire has, of course, nothing to do with the other occurrences. Since the case started, the prosecution team has: been cursed (repeatedly) by a wild-haired witch, narrowly survived 3 different explosions, found a giannt lurking outside their homes, and (worst of all), been haunted by a pale ghost-girl in black pig tails.

7. Eventually, Morticia and Gomez realize that Gomez's brilliant defense is bankrupting the city. Out of civic duty, the agree to house arrest and probation.

8. Morticia and Hannibal become pen pals. FBI analysts swear there are no hidden codes in the letters, just conversations about art, music, and (of course) cooking.

#late night shit post #the addams family #hannibal #i should be sleeping #i can explain #morticia and gomez addams believe that consent is key

[problematickincalls]

I am (yet another) Will Graham from NBC Hannibal, in pursuit of nobody in particular (sort of). I find myself antsy, bored, in search of anybody of intriguing conversational capacity — Dr. Lector, perhaps, in that I would trouble myself to subject me to you again to experience the ecstasy of such riveting discussions. And to be seen. Mutually. It is a treasure to pick somebody apart to the extent to which they wish to be known (and beyond that). I miss … Speaking to you. Even if it is gritty or uncomfortable, to speak with sincerity beyond the confines of standard conventionality is truly liberating.

So… Lecter. Or anybody. I don’t necessarily desire interpersonal obligation. Should somebody of any identity or source simply wish to speak openly and objectively about anything without filter — I’m willing to engage. Ehh. 18+. I do not use public platform social media anymoreeee so discord or an alternative direct messaging service is convenient. I will reach out personally here to inquire how best to contact you.

Do not often answer these directly, but I am *a* Hannibal. I already have most of my canonmates, but if that isn't a problem for you I would be happy to pick your brain. Just contact off anon and I'll reach out.

#hannibal nbc kin #will graham kin #canon calls #mod helio