#they look uncanny...for spiders

[beebeedibapbeediboop]

Commission for @sunterelle ! I love spider characters <3

[ninawolv3rina]

In all her glory… THE UNCANNY X-SPIDER! Now with [counts on fingers] SEVENTEEN OUTFITS!

Spidersona: Cassidy ‘Cass’ Carver, AKA The Uncanny X-Spider, AKA Karnage (she/her)

[cyren-myadd]

A list of characters who remind me of Spider Socorro, but it gets progressively worse

[biomic]

you're actually getting him confused with those other guys. he typically prefers the adjectives amazing, spectacular, sensational, etc.

[paleghostinthecorner02]

Filed under "Not actually funny enough for me to be laughing this hard."

[ssluggishh]

wolf spiders i love you but please stop looking at me like that it makes me uncomfortable. why are your eyes so large

[supercityboys]

Superhero movie usually ruin the characters except for a couple exceptions but I was really happy that SM 2 made Venom an alien monster and not the dynamic that the Sony Eddie Brock movie made.

[paperbackribs]

"Hey, it's 'they/them,' dickheads," Steve interrupts exasperatedly.

Modern non-binary Eddie who is out but the kids just don't really let it sink in. Don't think about how Eddie increasingly flinches every meet-up as they exclaim during the campaign, calling out that 'he' has said this and that about the current monster in their tracks.

Steve though. Steve, feeling a little stupid the first time Eddie had haltingly told him about why it was so important to them. That the euphoria of 'woman' or 'man' was actually reserved for the fizzing feeling of rightness when gender was mixed and erased for them.

Steve, who felt the cogs in his head rubbing slowly together but had fixed the idea firmly in his heart--for the person in his heart--interrupts as the kids draw up their last play.

"They," Steve cuts in, firm and with a gimlet stare at the boys who frown up at him in confusion.

"They what?" Mike asks in exasperation, clearly expecting Steve to stutter and back away despite Steve never having backed away from a fight in the entire time the two guys have known each other.

"Who what?" Dustin mutters absently as he adjusts his gold count. "We're nearly done." He licks the tip of his pencil before returning to his count of the loot.

Lucas eyes the hardening stare on Steve's face, flicking over to Eddie's suddenly wide gaze and pokes Dustin to look up, "I don't think it's that."

Mike sighs at Steve's hands falling to his hips, recognising the chastening posture even as he doesn't understand why. Eddie though. Their expression falls from wide surprise to understanding and something with a touch of awe that Steve doesn't quite understand from his friend.

"They, you dickheads," Steve repeats, lips pursed. "Eddie is not a 'he.' They're not 'her.' They are 'they.' They are 'them.' It's not hard. I literally used it like a million times already today."

Steve sniffs into the air and Mike scowls, "It just happens; Christ, Steve."

The light dims in Eddie's eyes, but he nods gamely, voice even and-- Steve can tell--deliberately light, "It's no big deal, easy to do. Don't worry about it, Stevie."

"But it hurts you," Steve insists.

Mike's eyes widen in surprise and Lucas winces.

Eddie hurriedly shakes their head with a forced laugh, "It's not like I've not gone by 'he' for nearly my entire life." They wink at Dustin, who had raised his head suddenly.

"You did a thing," Dustin says slowly, putting down his pencil next to a dragonborne figurine and miming an exaggerated wince and flinch. "Two hours and--" he checks his Casio watch, "thirteen minutes ago when the orcs invaded. I said our dungeon master was a right man of a bastard."

Eddie softens, genuine amusement lighting their face, "I'm used to you lot cussing me out, Henderson."

"But it wasn't the swearing," Lucas says, remorse filling his voice even as he pinches Mike. The other kid yelps but quietens when Lucas leans in, heatedly whispering and Mike goes red then white in the face.

"Oh shit, I forgot."

Teeth gritted, Eddie repeats, "It's not a big deal. Now--"

"Okay," Steve interrupts again, pulling a seat over to sit next to Eddie, thighs almost touching, "then it's no skin off our nose if we start practising for you, right?"

He turns to the boys, expression pleasant for the first time, "Eddie said it's no big deal, are they right?"

Mike blinks three times before pointing to his character sheet, "Eddie should have given me experience points for the giant spider but they stiffed me."

In an uncanny echo, Eddie blinks at Mike for his word choice.

"They were right," Dustin argues. He points at Lucas, "He figured out the clue and stabbed it--" he turns his finger to Eddie, "--and so they made the right call."

Eddie blinks again with eyes that look a little moist while Lucas continues with the cues given to him by his friends. He makes a loud boinking sound, "Sucks to be you. Hey, Eddie, can I have the spear these two bozos found?"

And with that, the sound of squabbling fills the room.

Steve looks on contentedly as Eddie leans back in their throne, eyeing the boys as they confidently back the adventurers into a corner while teasing the idea of a new battle simultaneously.

Steve leans back into his small frame of a chair too, a smile playing at the sides of his mouth as he listens to his favourite people love each other in their own special ways.

[charliemwrites]

Men At Work - Part 3

I know this has been a little slow to start, but things should progress a little more quickly from here. I wanted to establish some of the groundwork for this weird dynamic they all have but unfortunately, these men don't know the meaning of slow, even in my own head.

No Content Warnings

“How are the repairs going?” you ask.

It’s just Nikto today, returning your Tupperware from dinner the other night. He’s covered head to toe once again, all that’s visible are those glass blue eyes. One way mirrors - hiding everything beneath the surface.

They remind you of… something. 

Hmm. When you figure it out, they’re sure to make an appearance in your next novel.

“On track,” he answers in that sharp, staccato way you’re learning is just his way.

Unfortunately for him, that just makes you more curious. You know it’s a bit obnoxious - you’re not entitled to information, you know that. And most of the time you curb the inquiries tapping at the back of your teeth. But he’s in your house, snuggling your traumatized cat. If he’s got a problem answering casual questions, you’re certain he’ll have no problem letting you know.

“You’re redoing the whole thing?”

“Most of it. Foundation is good. The rest - дерьмо.”

You don’t know a lick of Russian, but you can guess.

“Good bones,” you hum in understanding. As if you know anything about construction. “That helps. When do you think it will be done?”

He shifts, sharp eyes flicking between your busy hands, the door, and Rasputin holding him lovingly hostage.

Little guy is currently perched on your shoulder, face buried against your collar in abject despair that his bestest friend hasn’t come to visit. Shithead is poaching (or attempting to, anyway) the sandwiches you’re assembling. So far, she’s only swishing her tail, biding her time. You’re keeping an eye on her.

“Two months. Three if any of us are called.”

You hum, reach for the tomatoes. It’s only because you’re looking at him that you notice the slightest twitch around his eyes. Beneath his mask, you’d bet he’s scrunching his nose.

“No?”

“I will eat.”

You leave the tomatoes off. Guy mews sadly, you tilt your head to press a kiss to his little ear.

“So, two or three months. Krueger said you’ll move in then.”

“Da.”

You top the sandwiches with a final slice of bread and turn to the oven. Spin back just in time to catch Shithead’s paw reaching for Krueger’s designated sandwich. Nikto eyes the plate of brownies in your free hand; you bite the corner of your mouth to keep from grinning.

“What about the yard?”

Nikto tilts his head. If he didn’t give the impression of a particularly large predator, you’d call it cute. As it is, even spiders and snakes endear themselves to you somehow.

“What about yard?”

“Any plans for it?” You sneak an extra brownie onto Nikto’s plate. Reward and apology for wrenching conversation out of him. “Grass? Trees? Flowers?”

He blinks. Just once. Some sort of intuition tells you that even that behavioral tic is a big social step for him.

“No.”

“Oh, uh… gravel then?”

“We mean no plans,” he corrects.

“Oh! Alright, I suppose that’s a long way off anyway. There’s still so much work to do on the inside.”

But it does get you thinking. What even goes into fixing a house? And how do they know all this stuff? The electric, the insulation, the… whatever else goes into a home. Is it just Weird Things they picked up from the military?

You stare contemplatively at the house’s exterior as you walk the plates across the street with Nikto. (Ras is riding on his shoulder and Guy refused to detach his claws from yours. You fear for the state of your home with Shithead left behind, but neither you nor Nikto had a spare hand to wrangle her with.)

Nikto practically kicks the door in, shouting for the others as he goes. Guy chooses that moment to start crying - uncanny sense for appearing pathetic as possible.

Konig must hear him halfway down the stairs, because the steady boot steps get faster after a moment.

“Oh, bubchen! Why are you sad? What has happened?” Konig coos, nearly running to your side.

Of course, now that he’s gotten what he wanted, Guy’s volume lowers. He makes a pleased little “mrow” and slinks off your shoulder and into Konig’s reaching hands. You’d call him a traitor but you’re a damn sucker for a big man with a cute animal. 

“You two are ridiculous,” you laugh, setting the plates on the counter.

It’s already been replaced since last you saw it. Black granite, very sleek. You like it. (Which of them installed it? Nikto? You usually catch glimpses of him on the ground floor.)

“He is a baby, Biene,” Konig protests, “he must be treated like one.”

“He’s already five!” You reply, like you don’t have a papoose for when your hands are too full to snuggle him.

“Did I stutter? I do not think so. This is a baby.”

You have to turn away to hide your laughter, pretending that taking the foil off the lunches requires your full attention.

Krueger steps up behind you while you’re not looking. The heat of him is what alerts you, the only reason you don’t jump when his rough voice comes by your head.

“Where is the Shithead.”

“Hello to you too, Krueger. How is your day?”

He grunts and reaches past you, trying to snatch up a brownie. Without a thought, you slap at his hand - balk at the sharp whack sound it makes. He jerks his hand back in shock.

“You deny me my dearest friend and you attack me in my own home.”

You spin on your heel, mouth already open. False start as you realize he’s even closer than you expected. The height difference doesn’t seem like much until you’re eye level with his neck. You untangle your tongue and ignore the smirk growing at the corner of his scarred mouth.

“This is barely a house, never mind a home,” you scoff.

He snorts - that smirk turns to a full blown grin. A little crazed. Unfortunately, that makes it more attractive. (And the bastard probably knows it too.)

“You insult me too, now.”

“Sure, but I brought you food.”

He flicks his eyes to the plate behind you and arches a brow.

“Bring me the little Sheisskerl and I will forgive you.”

You tilt your head to the side. “Go get her yourself.”

What the hell did you just say? Inviting a man into your house unaccompanied?! You may not be a true crime writer, but you know better.

You still don’t take it back.

He locks eyes with you, gives the distinct impression that he knows exactly what you just thought and he’s amused by your obstinance.

“Fine.” He reaches past your hip. Smells like sweat and something that reminds you of heat. Solder? Certainly not anything you’re used to. “Behave, eh? Konig is easy to take advantage of.”

You snort and glance at Konig over his shoulder, who’s glaring now. (Somehow no less intimidating even with Guy nuzzling at his mask.)

As Krueger turns, he takes a big bite of brownie, humming appreciatively under his breath. You shake your head, then turn to Konig.

“If you want to steal one of his sandwiches, I’ll look the other way.”

Konig barks a short, sharp laugh of surprise. It startles you a bit, but not enough to wipe the grin from your face. You know he really means it when he sounds like that.

“How are the bathroom repairs going?” you ask.

“They are going well!” he answers. Then launches into an in-depth explanation of all the ongoing projects. Replacing walls, rewirings, outlet and light installations. What doesn’t go over your head is almost too fast to understand as his accent thickens with excitement. You nod along anyway, because you asked, and he’s stupidly endearing - big muscular man getting a bit squeaky while he rambles about pipes.

He barely even notices Guy’s little paw reaching until it’s shoved into his open mouth. He sputters as you burst into laughter, gently tucking Guy’s arm against his chest.

“Why would you do this?!” he asks, only to receive a slow blink in response.

“He’s saying you need to eat,” you giggle, nudging Konig’s plate.

“Oh, that’s right! Thank you for the lunch!”

Barely a couple bites in and you hear the door open again. Krueger stomps in with Shithead bundled in his arms, one hand under her bottom, the other around her tummy. She’s got her head tilted all the way back to chirp and chitter at him.

“Why are you carrying her like that?” you ask, choking back a giggle. 

“It is how she wishes to be carried.”

You blink at her - but sure as shit, she’s perfectly content being held like a child’s toy.

“Well good luck eating like that.”

“You won’t feed me?” he leers.

“I don’t want rabies if you bite me.”

His laughter is even harsher than Konig’s. You like it instantly.

All that’s left is to hear Nikto’s.

Agatha is outside when Nikto walks you back home.

(Krueger huffed that he had too much work to do for the day, but he would see you for dinner. While you were still blinking in shock at his self-invite, Konig transitioned Little Guy back into your arms. All the while grumbling at Krueger’s impatient German.)

She scowls as she notices your two-person parade. Nikto’s juggling Little Guy and Rasputin; you’ve got a firm grip on Shithead and the stack of dirty plates. You snort a bit just thinking of her paranoid comments about them being bad men. Sure, they might be in some ways, but it’s a hard sell when Ras is trying to lick at the edge of the mask around Nikto’s eyes.

“Afternoon, Agatha,” you call, just to be petty.

“When is your fiance coming by again?” she calls back. “Such a lovely young man.”

Your mirth dries up in an instant. “I broke up with my boyfriend four months ago. I thought I told you.”

You did. You know you did. Because she’s a nosy pain in the ass that was asking about your Easter plans with him (trying to invite you to church once again) when you told her that you left him. She’d even fussed about it at the time, saying that there’s hardly anything that can’t be healed with time and understanding.

(It was only your commitment to your own privacy that kept you from asking how much time it takes to smooth over someone cheating with your cousin.)

At your side, Nikto grunts. You glance sideways at him, wondering what he must think.

But his eyes are on Agatha. Even Rasputin has paused the grooming routine to narrow his one eye at her.

“Is this the one that looks in mailbox?” he asks, louder than you’ve ever heard.

Loud enough that she hears. And flushes redder than the poppies in your flowerboxes.

“That’s her husband, actually,” you answer. She sputters, and an incredibly immature bolt of satisfaction suffuses you.

He grunts again. Eyes her up and down. “Maybe we leave surprise for him next time, da?”

You press your lips together, but it does nothing to prevent you from grinning. He’s deadly serious, though, which somehow makes it even funnier to you.

“Maybe!” you reply in a tone that really means absolutely.

Nikto shuts the door on her face before Agath can get out a threat to call the police.

“You’ve got a petty streak,” you say, grinning at him.

He tilts his head. “You like.” He doesn’t even sound sure if it’s a question or a statement.

“Yeah,” you giggle, “I like it.”

He grunts and takes the plates from your hand. “We wash. You think about dinner and revenge. Da?”

You plop yourself onto a stool by the kitchen counter. “Da.”

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Masterlist

[gyuswhore]

unbreaking

life has dealt Wonwoo with a very uncanny set of cards, enough to make every waking hour an uncertainty. there is one thing however, he can always count on to remain unbreaking. well, maybe two.

wc: ~1.5k | contains: Spiderman!jeon wonwoo x reader, fluff, a crime is committed but its not in detail, perpetrator has a gun but doesn't use it

[a/n]: noW I KNOW I already posted my secret Santa fic HOWEVER this one is extra extra special bc its for my one and only camothy 🫶 she's been working vv hard when ive had to take a step back from @camandemstudios duties bc of life and I have concluded that she deserves a litol treat!!! @highvern I remember you talking about spidey wonu at some point so here it is, I hope u enjoy MUAH

also, bigbigbgigbig ty to @the-boy-meets-evil for beta-ing this for meeee <333

masterlist

The nerves were eating him inside out. He should be used to this, high pressure situations with more than just his life on the line, but Wonwoo can’t stop the waves of nausea that won’t seem to leave. 

His I’m outside message stays in the text box, his thumb hovering over the send button. Swallowing, he lets his thumb rest on the screen and tries not to throw it into your neighbors bushes. 

Dinner with your parents meant that Wonwoo had to reign himself in, keep to his best behaviour, do everything to be anything but himself. As your text bubbles bounce on his screen, he feels his heart come up to his throat. 

[You]: clearance to ring the doorbell!!!

Deep, sharp breath, before he lets out slowly. He hopes his jeans aren’t too informal, his jacket too formal. He realises in that moment that he’s probably gonna have to hang it up, his t-shirt displaying the inevitable cuts and bruises on his arms. He curses under his breath, but it’s too late to change now, the only other pair of clothes in his trunk being his suit. Not an option.

So he rings the doorbell of your family’s home, and makes a futile attempt to clear his head. He imagines taking armfuls of the junk in his mind, dumping it into the recycling bin. He turns around, but the pile’s only doubled. 

A click and the door’s opened, your face poking through the opening, a small smile on your face. Wonwoo feels himself relax at the sight, face morphing into a smile of his own. 

“Hey,” he grins. 

“Hi,” you whisper, unmistakable glint in your eye. “Come in.”

So he does, eyes up to catch anyone in the hall. He’s seen it before, but his stomach lurches when he sees your little sister in the hallway wearing a red t-shirt with a spider on it. Merchandise he’s never gotten a cut for because that would be compromising his identity, but he’d gotten used to it. His nerves are making him jumpy today, which isn’t always a good thing with what he is. 

The last thing he wants is for your mother’s chandelier to end up covered in cobwebs not from actual spiders. 

“Hey!” Wonwoo waves at your sister, who’s done nothing but stare at him since he walked in. 

“Your jacket—” you start. 

“Will stay on,” he interrupts, meeting your expecting eyes in a plea. “Please.”

You don’t ask questions. You never seem to. 

He’s sure to say his hellos to your mother and father as politely as he can muster, but also trying to not sound blank as a sheet. 

He eats what’s on his plate, compliments your dad on the potatoes, your mom on the salad. He remembers to be open for seconds, remembering how you told him your parents are happiest when they can feed their guests. 

Your mother rounds up on your sister, “Do you wanna talk to Wonwoo while I get dessert ready?” 

She’s been half fed by your mother who seems to be in the middle of teaching her how to feed herself. 

The way she stares is unnerving, like she can see right through him. “Do you like Spiderman?”

Your father groans in a whisper, “Gear up, son.”

“Yeah! I like him, he’s cool.” 

“I like him too,” she says, face blank. “I probably like him better than you though.”

“Probably.”

She looks down at her shirt, “My sister got this for me for my birthday.”

Wonwoo looks at you, eyebrows raised. “How come I don’t get one?”

“Because I like him better. Duh!” 

Wonwoo makes a face like he understands, setting his cutlery down to raise his hands, “Of course! I forgot.”

“You’re bad at remembering. You were three minutes late to dinner. Probably because you forgot that too!”

He hears both you and your father exclaim at her in a chide, but Wonwoo only laughs. He should remember to sign something for you to give to your sister. 

You look up to him across the table, a little exasperated but beautiful. His eyes soften, very slowly lifting his sock clad foot to rub against your ankle in reassurance. That's all he can do here. 

After dessert, once Wonwoo is done complimenting you sister on the wonderful and janky icing job, your mother proposes coffee in the living room. It’s there that your sister tunes into the news channel. 

“Have you ever seen a kid beg to put on the news? It’s the only place she can catch Spiderman.” He remembers you telling him that, remembers feeling endeared. 

It was slow background noise for most of the coffee and conversation, and Wonwoo’s nearly done when the unmistakable BREAKING NEWS flashes across the screen like a signal. His guard is down, so he’s too quick to whip his head around to divert his attention. 

It’s a hostage situation, a one man job by the looks of it. Easy work for Wonwoo, but the gun in the crazed man’s shaking hands looks too unsteady to be left the way it is. 

The look you give him is enough. 

Wonwoo’s proud to say he’s gotten his suiting up time down to a matter of seconds, abandoning his car in front of your building as he struggles in the backseat to pull his suit on, before letting the familiar force of his webs take him off into the night. 

His first order of business was getting the wretched gun out of the perpetrator’s hands, watching him wave it about where Wonwoo — Spiderman — was perched on a streetlight. 

He’s done and dusted in the next few minutes, gun caught in his web and hostage right into Spiderman’s loving arms. It was all quite routine at that point, but he notes the cameras more vividly than usual, wonders if your family is still in the living room, watching him, not knowing it was their daughter’s boyfriend they’d just served coffee and delights underneath the rouge mask. 

Wonwoo catches you a few streets over, despite his never ending attempts to chide you whenever you do. It was dangerous enough to be associated with him, but following him to the very circumference of the scene never failed to heighten his nerves. 

He decides to play with you a little, walking with you from the top of the building, matching your pace as you don your favourite coat and walking shoes. No hat, because you know he best recognises people from an aerial view. Not you though, he’d recognise you from anywhere. 

So there he goes, swinging to a street light, before roping himself well enough to secure his descent. You always expect him to drop in on you from above, but hanging upside down in your face was a first. 

You see the mask first, the large teardrop eyes before the red that surrounds them. Jumping back, you yelp loud enough to constitute your hand slapping against your mouth. 

“God, be normal for once!” you chortle. 

Wonwoo is amused. “I’m hanging upside down in a bodysuit, hardly anything normal about me.” 

You can only sigh, shoulders sagging as you look at him in the streetlight. “Can you quit handling people with long range weapons? You know how quickly that can get ugly.”

“Can you stop following me to said places?”

You make a sour face, “You know my answer.”

“I do. Stubborn till the end.”

“Does the blood not rush to your head like that?” you ask, looking around absentmindedly, like you were trying to find passersby this late at night. 

“No one’s here,” he whispers to you. 

Moving in closer, you continue speaking. “My sister’s smitten with you.”

“Spiderman will be sure to bump into her sometime.” He grins under the mask, glad he’s able to gain that all important approval. 

“Can Jeon Wonwoo bump into me sometime? I miss you, you know.” 

“I miss you more, baby.” The but hangs in the air, but he doesn’t take it in his mouth.

Instead, he feels a pressure against his mask, right where his lips are. You kiss him through the material, and Wonwoo has to consciously grip onto his webs. 

The unmistakable warmth of your fingers finds the end of his mask, pulling at it slowly, revealing the skin of his neck, the beginning of his chin, up to the pink of his lips. 

You kiss him again, there where he hangs from a streetlight, there where he knows he’ll always be able to find you. The feeling of his suit, the feeling of your lips on his; they meld in ways he won’t ever understand. 

Spiderman confuses Wonwoo, an enigma that feels both a boon and a curse. But Wonwoo loves you, in all that he is, and that remains the one thing he can always count on, like his webs in all ways, to be firm and unbreaking.

[cyrki]

Hannibal x Reader

...who refuses to eat after finding out what animal the meat they're being served actually comes from.

CW: Force-feeding, captivity, slight (unintentional, can be seen platonically) Hannigram pairing

You haven't always been aware of it, but it eventually grew to be extremely obvious—Incredibly, eating had become a rather gruesome task. Just gazing at the food made your stomach churn and following each bite was a dreadful feeling of repulsion. The once innocent and innate act of eating exempt you from being a victim. Reversely, it made YOU the culprit, to a considerable extent.

—

You knew it.

Each swallowed mouthful was a new lump in your throat.

Hannibal Lecter was a rather cunning murderer; You were his, and apparently Will's, hapless little victim.

—

You couldn't quite comprehend the truth. To be fair, it was indigestible, both literally and metaphorically. Being held captive was one thing, but human flesh and organs existing to be the sole source of your intricate meals was just... bewildering.

"Y/N." Hannibal spoke, in his usual monotone tone of voice. He glanced at your almost untouched plate of food before averting his gaze back at you, in a slightly demanding manner.

"I cannot help but make note of your forbearance." He remarked, putting his carefully crafted metal fork down and intertwining his slender fingers together.

Truly, his statements were nothing more than politely-worded and conscientiously constructed commands. You knew him well enough to be able to recognise them with ease.

"I'm sorry." A mere apology was all you could utter before tentatively picking up your cutlery and eating.

—

Ever since that night, Hannibal has seemingly noticed the changes in your eating patterns. How you ate less and less, eyeing him guiltily, hoping he wouldn't say anything regarding the matter. Thankfully, you were rather... Obedient.

He couldn't, however, help but wonder what exactly gave rise to this peculiar behaviour. At first, he attributed it to unwellness. As displeased as it made him, he understood that being held captive can have quite the toll on one's mental well-being. Be that as it may, your otherwise passive and compliant attitude disproved his theory.

Perhaps it was your way of rebelling, almost slightly adorable. Almost.

Eventually, he figured it out—How absent-minded you were, under the ridiculous belief that he was unaware of the unquantifiable guilt that washed through you with each bite. Of course, he couldn't allow this unacceptable habit of yours to continue.

—

Friday, evening

Given the day, the manhunter invited Will over for dinner. Naturally, you were to be present at the table.

You barely touched the meat contents of your intricately cooked lunch. When inquired, you excused yourself with a rather simple and straightforward lie.

"I'm not in the mood for meat."

In that moment, you could swear Hannibal's lips curved upward to a knowing smile. Before you could even take a mental photograph, he adopted his characteristic stoic expression.

Something was off.

He was looking at you the way a hedonist seeks sensation.

The way a dog waits for a piece of meat.

The way a spider methodically and patiently ceases for the perfect moment to ambush its helpless prey.

Will was already sat at the dinner table when you came down from the attic. His eyes were full of disdain. Pity; Warning you of whatever was to come.

The two men were conversing, but you could barely make out what they were saying, due to their continuous use of indiscernible metaphors, as if they were codifying the contents of their dialogue.

The main dish; "Braised Roast" meat baked in clay with marrow, and lady apples on the side.

You inhaled deeply, grasping your shiny fork so hard your knuckles adopted a snow-white shade.

"What are we waiting for?" Hannibal smiled, his deep brown eyes initially landing on Will before eventually finding their way to you, where they lingered for a bit longer than they should've.

You felt an uncanny pressure watching both of them clear their plates. Each moment he stopped to chew he meticulously used to eye you.

"It's unfortunate you're not eating." The psychiatrist exclaimed, obviously referring to you and how your food remained unconsumed. You awkwardly chuckled - Approximately a billion excuses ought to travel to your lips, yet each and every single one got stuck in your throat.

"You know I cannot condone this behaviour any longer; It truly pains me to see you abstain from eating everything I cook." He berated you with plastered concerns. Will simply nodded, only looking at you from the corner of his eyes. Hannibal was now ogling at you and impatiently waiting. It was made clear that you expected to finish everything on your plate.

Yet you didn't. You just gawked at the contents in front of you intently, trembling.

"That's no good. I was hoping not to get my hands dirty tonight." Hannibal sighed as he got up from his seat. Your grasp on your chair only tightened, your brows knit together with uncertainty and untainted fear as he approached you.

His large hands abruptly grabbed both of your wrists before aggressively pinning them down on the wooden armrests of the chair you were sat on. You winced in pain for no longer than a second, at which he he unlocked his jaw to speak once more.

"Do not struggle. There is no need to make things harder than they already have presented themselves to be." He calmly requested as he applied more pressure before eyeballing Will, who consequently got up from his seat and placed his own colder hands right where Hannibal's previously were, just long enough for Hannibal to skillfully tie rope around all your limbs.

With both his hands now free, he could now do as he pleased. His left hand violently held your chin up, his perfectly round fingernail digging in your soft cheeks deep enough to leave a temporary mark, while his right picked up your fork.

He stabbed it in the meat, before bringing it centimeters away from your lips.

"Open up." He ordered. You stubbornly kept your mouth shut.

"...or don't." He painfully opened your teeth, forcing the food down your throat before making you chew and swallow. A horrifying sensation washed over you as you felt the food travel down to your previously empty stomach.

"There. It's not that bad, is it?" He smiled as he dug in the plate. Your eyes began to well up as he continued to force-feed you what was once a human-being.

About halfway through, you felt everything climbing back up your esophagus - However, gagging was seemingly not permitted. If anything, it encouraged him to continue.

And just when you thought it was coming to an end, when there was not a single crumb left, he excused himself only to bring back another plate just as full of tender meat.

Your stomach was very obnoxiously full by that point, and Hannibal was well accustomed to that. You were being reprimanded, after all. Punishments shall not lack the aspect of pain, or else they're not effective. All you could do was pathetically plead for him to stop between each excruciating mouthful that was forced down your throat, which he appeared to find rather irritable.

He left just enough space in between each bit to allow you to pitifully gasp for oxygen. You were long out of tears, but the pleading look in your eyes was more than enough to satiate Hannibal.

Your stomach grew to be rock-hard and bloated, as it excruciatingly pressed against your pants, the buttons of which were barely holding up against your full gut. Once you were finally done, Hannibal gently dragged his thumb against it, gingerly enough to soothe you yet firm enough to cause you pain. He unbuttoned the top button of your pants, giving you a very short-lived feeling of serenity.

"I forbid you from going to bed hungry ever again. Understood?" He instructed, untying the ropes that constrained you before placing a tender kiss on the top of your head.

[yeyinde]

piggybacking off of @ceilidho 's dog soap idea with something awful lmao

You first notice it when you catch him staring at you from the crack of your bedroom door.

He's sitting in the dimly lit hallway, only half of his face peering into the sliver of space between the white wood of the door and the frame. Just—

Watching.

In the bluegreen glow of the flickering screen (Robert Stack paces down a blue hallway, bathed in that hazy, neon glow of early 80s television), he looks more like a lurking shadow than an animal. Eyes dark, and glinting in the soft light like the surface of a placid lake. You think of the dangers lurking beneath the murk when his muzzle dips, the slow refocus of an apex predator acclimating to a sudden change by its prey. The motion almost entire too human, and—

Not.

Not at all. It rides a razor's edge between anthropomorphism and the uncanny valley; the middle a strange, unfathomable realm of eerie discomfort. Something is wrong. The notion prickles against the nape of your neck. Crawls slowly down your back, the spindled gait of a languid spider tickling your skin as it walks over your flesh.

Something is wrong with your dog.

He was fine ten minutes ago. Had his dinner. Went for his walk. You were lazing on the bed flipping through the channels when his ears perked up, head pointed toward the back door.

You didn't think much about it. He had to go. Maybe he heard a rodent rummaging in your garbage. You slipped out of bed, his soft, fuzzy body sliding against your calves as you walked him to the patio, pulling it open and letting him out. He seemed to hesitate at the threshold, though. And while it didn't stand out to you then, it does now. He froze, ears pinning back, flat to his skull, as his fur lifted. Raising high in the air. A whine slipping out—

There was a rustle in the bush. A low noise. A growl. It was probably just the other dog sniffing along the fence, you thought. Your neighbours husky. He placed one paw on the deck, and then turned to you, eyes wet and glossy in the flushed porch light, and—

(and he looked so scared.)

Your breath hitches. Heart twisting in your chest. He's still staring at you from the hall. Unblinking. Expression wild. Wide. Pinning you with his stare. But he's panting. Chest expanding as it heaves through it's snout in quick, shallow breaths. Maybe the other dog scared it. Maybe the husky bit it's paw through the fence. You should check on it—

Him.

Check on him.

He went outside after a moment. Tail flattened between his legs. Drawn toward something you couldn't see, couldn't hear. And you turned around with a smile, waving him off as you walked back to bed. And now—

It's—his—lip curls.

He's never so much as bitten you much less—snarled. The suddenness of it paralyses you. Roots you to bed. Useless and unable to do anything as your dog, your baby boy, lifts his muzzle up with a growl, long, sharp canines dripping red—

"Baby?"

It's a warble when it slips out. Shaky. Scared. The sound of voice makes the dog drop his jowls, cherryred tongue lulling out. Pink, foamy drool spilling to the ground as he pants. His teeth look sharper than they did before. You brush them every night before bed, cooing at him as you scrub his canines clean. Singing some off-key song about dogs and their pretty teeth. He watches you with nothing short of adoration etched into his big, brown eyes. Wide and so trusting, so loving—

It's a harsh juxtaposition to how he looks at you now. Hungrily. Like a starving lion looming over a tired, sickly gazelle. Tongue out, jaws dripping with saliva. Your heart lurches.

"Baby?" You call again and he huffs. The rough noise filling the room, echoing through the hall. Deeper, somehow, than the snarl on his lips. The halfbitten growl booming in his heaving chest. You curl your legs inward under the covers, drawing them tight to your chest as he blinks, slow. Languid. As his lips split wider, wider, and for a moment, you almost trick yourself into seeing a maniacal grin pushing at the corners. Frenzied and full of teeth.

But the lake ripples, and the thought is tucked away. Hidden under a blanket of numbness that spreads, mushrooming over your thoughts. Cobwebbing over the unease that saturates your mind; tiny fangs of a spider piercing through, liquifying them.

He keeps his eyes pinned on you, mouth open wide with his tongue out the side of jaw, and slowly raises himself off of the floor. It's something you've seen him do hundreds of times. Agile flicks. A big stretch. A yawn. A shake.

You wait for it. And wait. Wait—

Something cools on your cheek. Wet, sticky. You don't have to reach up to know that it's tears. They roll down in an endless stream, cold against your frozen face. Unable to move as your mind bends, and bends, but refuses to break. To snap. Shatter. To admit that what you're seeing is real.

That he doesn't shake. He doesn't yawn. He jerks. He twists. Unfamiliar, you think. Like he isn't used to moving with a body this shape. Distorted. Wrong. It snaps. It twitches. He hunches over with his spine bowed and his head slung between his thick front legs, low to the ground but his eyes—

His eyes are on you.

Pinning you down. Glowing in the artificial blue light.

You can't watch him move. Try to walk. It'll skewer through the molasses you let trickle over your fear, curdling in your belly like sour milk. You drag your gaze away from his jerking gait instead, staring, unseeingly, at the television as he limbers onto the bed.

You can smell something on him when he moves close. Rot, you think. Ozone. Pine. Dead leaves. The wet, mossy bark of a fallen tree. Blood. Bad meat.

He looms over you. Snout inches from your cheekbone. The puff of his ragged breath glues uncomfortably to the sticky tears on your face. The air that rattles in and out of his lungs is uneven. Choppy. Inhale too deep. Exhale too shallow. It morphs into snarling rataplan. In-in, out. Inout. In, ininin, out.

Your eyes burn. If your heart beats any harder, any faster, you think you might go into shock. Cardiac arrest. Killed by—

Fear.

That there's blood on his muzzle. You smell it when he leans in close, snout pressing cold and slimy against your cheek.

You're not sure why you do it. Muscle memory, maybe. But your hand lifts. Falls to his head. Nails scratching through matted, oily fur.

He's still staring at you. Whale-eyed. Something inside you whispers not to look. That if you turn your head, all the things hidden under the silk web will bubble to the surface. Things like—

He's big. Too big. Your growing boy.

He smells. He reeks. Got into the garbage again.

He's acting strange. Wrong. He's just scared.

He's going to eat you alive. You love him.

This thing isn't your dog—

He swings his head toward you suddenly, maw open wide, peeling back from those sharp, stained teeth; tongue lulling out—oh god, oh god—and he licks your cheek.

Panic bubbles out of your throat in the shape of a laugh. A giggle. You're going crazy, you think. Hysterical. But you let him lick your face, swiping his too hot tongue over the tears on your cheek. Your nose. Licking into the corners of your eyes. Over your forehead, chin. Jaw.

Its only when his muzzle slides up to your lips do you flinch back. Pull away. "No. N—no. Bad bad. Go—go to sleep, baby."

He huffs, and you stare—resolute, empty—at the blankets when he drops his head down, licking slowly at your rabbiting pulse. Teeth grazing the soft skin of your neck. Nibbling, pinching with his sharp incisors. The gossamer falls. The sheet is pulled back.

The thing stares at you with a hideous, devastating want on its borrowed face. Primordial. Archiac. It's hunger. It's greed. Its a lamb in the lion's den. And you—

You pull the sheet back up. Slowly slide back to the pillows below. Eyes fixed on the ceiling as he looms over you. Your baby boy. There's a huff. A quiet exhale through its nose, and then you feel it move. Twisting. Turning. Curling up against your side, body supine and made of strong, hard muscle. The rough scrape of its fur feels like a beard. Coarse. Wry. Spread out and matted down against its canine body. Burning like a furnace. Reeking of brimstone.

As he settles in his spot, resting his heavy head on your belly (possessively—owner, pet; the lines blur as he flicks his gaze toward you, watchful now and still as heavy, dizzyingly intense as before), you lay awake staring at the ceiling. It'll pass in the morning, you think. He must have eaten something bad. Got into the garbage again. You'll take him to the vet, maybe.

(leave him there—)

He's fine. He's just a little sick, is all. Agitated. It's going to storm tonight. He can feel it in the air. In his joints. Everything will be fine—

Outside, something yowls. The patio door rattles.

Scratch, scratch, scratch—

He huffs, lifting his head with a small snarl pulling on his waxy muzzle. Eyes narrowing into slits. Glaring into the hallway. To the patio.

"Easy, baby," you quaver, and curl your hands into his damp fur. "It's just the wind. It's just the wind—"

Another huff. It sounds rougher this time. Deeper. Masculine. Human.

When he settles back against you, you feel bare skin sliding along your thigh, and realise that the nightmare has just begun.

"Baby? Could get used tae tha'. Are ye gonnae ca' me a good boy too?"

[jasmines-library]

I saw u did a batfam with a spider-reader and it made me decide how would the batfam be like with a felicia hardy/black cat reader or maybe another spider-reader with batfam could be nice!

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

Note: Hey! So i actually have something fairly (?) similar with a Selina Kyle-esque reader but I know its not entirely the same so here you go! I don't really know a huge amount about Felicia Hardy so I had to do some research, but i hope this is okay!

⛧ BATFAM MASTERLIST ⛧ EXTENTION

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

You're an intriguing character for them. Straight away, they have a keen interest in you. Not only because of your uncanny ability to sneak past them, but also because of your personality.

Your fineness would not only awe them, but also piss them off a little because they just couldn't keep up with you, or stop you after you burgle somewhere.

This would particularly mess with Damian who, with his short temper, would get very tired of your skillful game of cat and mouse. Or rather...cat and birds.

Dick and Jason would be particularly impressed by your acrobatics. Especially Dick, since they were on par with his own. He would find it rather fun to chase you, trying to predict your next move and ultimately being wrong.

Tim would spend his time analysing you.

His work would mostly take form in finding security footage of you and watching how you slunk around the streets, often disappearing for short amounts of time as you found the blind spots. He would try and figure you out to help figure out a way to help stop you.

The game of cat and mouse would go on for a little while. No one is able to figure out how you manage to slink away everytime. Until they figure out your ability to inflict people with bad luck, allowing you to slink away.

Things would take an interesting turn after this. Especially when they manage to catch you.

As soon as you get talking, you would click. And sharing tips and tricks would become common between the five of you.

They would teach you the best look out spots in the city, and you would teach them how to slink around unseen.

a sort of alliance.

An alliance that becomes a friendship.

and well.....i'll leave it up to you to decide where it goes from there ;)

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

BATFAM TAGS

@hearts4robs @xxrougefangxx @hell-o-kittys @harleycao @batfamsstuff @alicedawitchbish @killxz @rosecentury @azure-drag0ness

⛤⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽⛧☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅⛤

[kiis1k]

LOTR Legolas VS. The Hobbit Legolas

Ok. so. I know i wasn't the only person who, when watching the hobbit, was very put off by Legolas' appearance. Elves are supposed to be eternally youthful and beautiful! So how, and why, does Legolas look so much different than he does in the original trilogy?

To me, it's not a matter of Orlando Bloom being 10 years older, because he still looks amazing (and always will that man is gorgeous), but it is infact a matter of COSTUME DESIGN.

Now you may be wondering, “Costume design? But the same people worked on both trilogies, it can't possibly be that different.” and you’d be right. The big details are consistent, with all the races of middle earth, across the Peter Jackson films. But it is the little details that sell something, and they were kind of botched in the Hobbit, specifically with the return of Orlando Bloom's Legolas

Lets start with a quick spot the difference:

whats stands out to the viewer immediately? the hair, for one, and then the eyes.

In the LOTR trilogy, the hair is much looser, and therefore, more free. it creates a sense of youth in a character that, because though he has a fair face, he is probably 2,000+ years old. There are multiple instances in which Legolas, and his compatriots, are in battle, and his hair gets fussy and frizzy and tangles. it's not perfectly done. He hasn't combed it 500 times until there aren't any bumps left. Because that's not realistic, and it's not his character.

The flyaways are what sell his youth, the messy little ear braids, random hairs flung over his shoulder, knots and waves from movement. Even when little baby hairs around the face fall down, all of this makes a character seem younger. and all of this was removed from the Hobbit version of Legolas.

His hair is combed back perfectly. It looks like he's put hairspray in it. His braids are tight, perfect, and lack any of the original fluidity. His hair doesn't have a single knot, even once he's done flipping and killing spiders and jumping over dwarves. This makes his character seem years, decades, or centuries older and more experienced than he was in the Lord of the Rings, which takes place like 80 years later!

The wigs, though they were beautiful, were not properly styled in order to retain the familiarity of the character we all know and love from the original trilogy. That's not the worst offense though. that goes to the eyes.

BECAUSE WTF IS THAT.

The costume department really failed here. In comparison with Lee Pace (Thranduil), Orlando Bloom's contacts were abysmal. I'm not sure what the aim was, but if it was to launch Legolas 10 miles behind the enemy lines of the Uncanny Valley, they succeeded.

I'm truly not sure why they didn't just keep his original brown eyes, since it is very difficult to get contacts to look right on such dark eyes, but I would have paid to be in the room when they made the decision to put this image out into the universe. The eyes are just so piercing that every time his character came on screen, it was one of the inly things i could focus on. its especially jarring because THRANDUIL'S CONTACTS LOOK FINE.

It just makes the character seem so plastic, and so much older and less kind than he was. but honestly, the hobbit kind of served as a character assassination for Legolas anyways. I have opinions on how he should have been portrayed, but that's a separate post.

Honestly, I'm just not sure what there is left to say here. everything that could be said about the eyes has been said, and we were universally creeped out by it, me thinks. so that's my excuse to move on the the actual OUTFIIIIIIITTTTSSSSSS but only quickly.

So technically, I'm nitpicking, but these things are important in my opinion! So I'll just make a little list to make it easier to explain and quicker because everyones exhausted at this point.

the clothes are too tight, and too restricting for a "warrior"

the cut in unflattering and cuts him straight across the body, which does nothing for him and makes him look frumpy? somehow?

they're also too clean. He's a warrior, not a councilman.

The collar of most of the clothing in the hobbit is too high and mature, and also restricts movement.

all of the restricted movement makes the character seem stockier and less agile than we know, and see, him to be.

Basically, he looks like he's wearing a costume. (P.S. it shouldn't look like that)

and also, NONE OF THE AFOREMENTIONED PROBLEMS are helped by the fact that the editing and quality of these movies makes even phenomenal costume designs, like that of the dwarves and of bilbo, look so, soooooo costumey. And also the makeup department is its own can of worms, mostly with everyone having zero flush, but oh well.

anyways. That's just me.

feel free to add anything i missed, or disagree, by all means! to me, i just found not only the character's demolished personality and strange appearance a little too much to be able to look past it and truly enjoy his presence in the movies, but i still love the movies.

[inthehouseoffinwe]

Maglor isn’t the first in the family to become more thing than elf.

That honour goes to Miriel.

Her years in the halls continuously weaving have given her several arms that flash in and out of existence. Eyes more akin to a spider’s. Hair that extends for miles, hanging all over the room to the threads she uses in her family’s tapestries.

One strand to every gleam of the silmaril. Several locks to the white flame that consumed her Fëanaro.

Another to carefully craft the jagged scars on Nelyo’s face and hand. He may not care for his looks, but Miriel refuses to give him anything but perfection. He’ll always be her beautiful grandson. She learned to see past looks long ago.

For Tyelko, so similar to her, she uses only the brightest strands. For Moryo’s glittering embroidery woven in careful detail, the finest. For Curvo’s intricate jewellery and sharp smile, the strongest. Ambarussa need little of her, so she makes sure to capture their shimmering tunics lest they feel left out.

She never much cared for how her grandchildren looked, they are hers and she is theirs.

Dear Celebrimbor is never without a quarter head of hair, silver in name and silver in looks. Even in death Sauron couldn’t separate him from her, the arrows that pierce him delicately captured in uncanny detail, so when her great-grandson arrives, he knows he was never alone. Not in his darkest times.

Most recently, she finds herself using the same several strands twisted again and again to make the white streaks in her Songbird’s hair. She often weaves Makalaurë between her larger tapestries, her way of accompanying her lonely child, and each time he seems to have grown more. She wonders when he’ll look like her. Silver hair. Embodying the element he was born into. More creature than elf.

Wonders if like her, he might be happier that way.

[synthwayve]

Yesss these are SO. GOOD!! I love your Laurence and Rom designs especially 👀 all four of them could spill soup on my sleeve and I would say thank you

(Practicing digital sketching and it's. Not easy.)

Micolash | Laurence

Ludwig | Rom