#slasher husbands

[milkoo-moo]

I WAS FINALLY ABLE TO FINISH THE DRAWING OF THESE TWO UNSTABLE CANNIBALS

The second drawing made me laugh, it's a reference to the anime Nana.

"Tell me Will, if you and I were a couple, don't you think a kiss would have been enough to fix everything?"

[cece693]

May I pretty please request Hannigram with an SO that really likes biting things? Like they’ll just nibble on anything available, including themself or Hanni/Will

male reader if possible :)

Bite Me, Darling

pairing: hannibal lecter and will graham x male reader tags: self soothing mechanism, male reader bites things, Alana bashing, jack Crawford bashing, just everyone in general is against this relationship, innocent male reader, hannibal and will want to keep him this way

It was strange, how everything about him was normal on the surface but wildly unique beneath. The way he moved through life, unaware of the way people stared, was something that only a few people truly understood. Will Graham and Hannibal Lecter, for all their intelligence and their capacity for manipulation, had each found something in him—something pure and raw—that spoke to them in ways they couldn’t articulate.

You were innocent in the most innocent way. You didn’t know how to read people’s intentions, how to navigate the murky waters of deceit and pain that others swam in. You were a creature of quiet habits: chewing on pens, biting the corner of your sleeves, even nibbling your fingers. It wasn’t that you was anxious, but rather that this was your way of processing the world. You didn’t speak much, but when you did, it was with a tenderness that could disarm even the most hardened individuals.

For some, this made you seem almost too innocent for the likes of Will and Hannibal. They were two men who dealt with darkness constantly, who played in shadows. Hannibal, the brilliant psychiatrist with an appetite for blood, had found himself intrigued long before anything happened between them. How did such a pure soul even come to be? How was it that someone as complex as Hannibal could be pulled into a world where biting things wasn’t just a habit—it was part of who you were?

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? Hannibal was nothing if not a man who craved complexity, and you, with your simple yet peculiar habit of biting, had an allure that he could never fully comprehend. He wasn’t sure when the lines had blurred, when you had shifted from being someone he wanted to understand to someone he wanted to possess.

Will, on the other hand, was less of a mystery. He found your unspoken understanding of him soothing. Will was not a man who found comfort easily. He’d had too many years of running from his own mind, of balancing between the need for human connection and the heavy weight of his empathic gifts. But you were different. You never demanded anything from him. There was no need to over explain; no fear of rejection. You were there, and that was enough.

The three of them had fallen into a relationship that no one, especially not Alana Bloom or Jack Crawford, could understand. Jack, upset that you had a greater control over his 'asset' perceived you as a problem that needed to be extinguished immediately. While he couldn't force Will to break up with you, he began to use manipulative language more frequently, hinting that his absence was endangering the lives of people. But after a while, his words began to lose power.

"Will, you can’t just leave because he told you to," Jack would say, his voice thick with frustration. "We need you to solve this case. You're part of this team." But Will, unmoved, always told him he was tired and needed a break—as if killers would respect that and stop murdering until he felt better. Jack would then begin to retort how soft Will was becoming, as if that ever mattered when others perceived him as a madman.

Alana, on the other hand, was driven by something more personal. Jealousy. She had been drawn to both Hannibal and Will. Her feelings for them had never been simple or easy, but she had always harbored a belief that somehow, one day, they would choose her. Instead, they had chosen you. The idea of you, with your gentle biting habit, managing to capture the attention of both men—of all people—was enough to make her skin crawl with resentment. How could someone so abnormal and clearly dealing with childhood trauma have the audacity to step into their world and steal both her love interests?

She couldn’t help but feel that you didn’t deserve them. You weren't like her—you didn’t understand the complexities of their lives nor seemed to be able to handle the hurdles that came with it. And so, she set to work.

It started subtly. A conversation here, a comment there.

“Don’t you ever feel like you’re a little strange?” she would ask, voice light, as if it were a passing thought. “I mean, the biting…it's something you can't help, but don't you ever want to stop it? Be seen as normal for once in your life?"

At first, you had laughed it off, thinking nothing of it. But over time, the seeds of doubt were planted. You began to wonder. Was your habit of biting things wrong? Your lovers had never raised concerns, but it would be something they'll definitely keep private, perhaps a secret only shared between Hannibal and Will. You never thought that Alana's words were connived to break your relationship apart, your naivety something the woman had taken into account and used to her advantage.

So, you tried to stop.

You started small: you tucked your hands into your sleeves when your instincts told you to gnaw at the fabric, and you opted for straws instead of biting the rim of a glass cup. You made an effort—any effort—to keep your teeth away from Will and Hannibal’s skin, no matter how comforting that gentle pressure felt against them. At first, neither man noticed; after all, it was easy to dismiss as a passing mood or an unremarkable change in routine.

But after a couple of days, small signs alerted both of them to the shift. Will began to see you catch yourself mid-motion, your hand halfway to your mouth before you stopped and pressed it flat against your chest instead. Hannibal noticed the anxious flicker in your eyes whenever you realized you were about to bite down on your sleeve—or worse, on him—and yanked yourself away.

It was Will who first chose to address it. One evening, you were curled up in his living room, dogs scattered around you like living blankets. The space was quiet, the only sound the gentle snoring of a dog and the low hum of the overhead light. You were running your thumb over your bottom lip—an almost-bite—when Will finally spoke.

“Hey,” he said softly, “what’s on your mind?”

You hesitated, forcing a small smile. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

He studied you with those empathetic eyes of his. You knew he was reading more into your silence, but Will was nothing if not patient. “You’ve been distant,” he finally ventured, words slow and careful. “I don’t mind if you need space, but if something’s bothering you, I want to help.”

The sincerity in his voice tore at your heart. You wanted to confide in him, to say Alana made me feel wrong, and I don’t want to be wrong for you, but the fear of seeming weak or needy held you back. You simply shook your head and offered a reassuring pat to one of the dogs resting on your lap. “I’m fine,” you lied, hoping he wouldn’t push. “Just tired.”

Hannibal discovered your change in behavior under more intimate circumstances. The two of you were alone in his kitchen, the scent of simmering stock filling the air. He had taken your hand to guide you closer to the cutting board, demonstrating a particular technique for slicing vegetables. Normally, a casual closeness like this was an invitation for you to lean in, maybe press your teeth gently against the back of his hand or the curve of his arm—just enough to ground yourself in his presence. This time, you didn't lean in nor brought his hand to your lips.

Hannibal stilled, eyebrows lifting in polite surprise. “Darling,” he asked softly, “what’s wrong?”

Heat bloomed in your cheeks. You swallowed hard. “Just didn’t want to hurt you,” you offered lamely, though you both knew you had never caused him pain before. His dark eyes narrowed thoughtfully, but he released your hand without comment. You wondered if your face betrayed the unease you felt, because Hannibal’s expression shifted into something gentler, concerned. But he chose not to press you then and there. Instead, he simply carried on, instructing you gently with the knife work and occasionally brushing a reassuring hand across your back.

Though both men tried to give you space, their combined worry spilled over as time went on. Neither was used to seeing you so guarded, especially around them. On a chilly afternoon, the three of you gathered in Hannibal’s study—a routine that had become something of a tradition. Will sipped his whiskey quietly while Hannibal and you browsed through his impressive collection of classical music. There was a soothing air of comfort, and for a brief moment, your doubts dimmed.

But of course, it was Will who noticed your jaw moving—saw the slight shift as your teeth worked the soft flesh inside your cheek. He placed his whiskey glass down on the table with a muted clink before pushing himself out of the chair.

“Stop,” he murmured, crossing the room with purpose. His voice was gentle but firm as he stepped close to you. Without hesitating, he brought his hand to your chin, his touch warm yet insistent. “Open your mouth.”

You stiffened, instinctively pulling away. You shook your head, trying to avert your gaze from Will’s intense blue eyes. You didn’t want to show him. You didn’t want him to see the damage you’d done to keep from biting them instead.

But then, Hannibal appeared at Will’s side, his presence commanding. He didn’t say a word, but the look he gave you—equal parts concern and disappointment—made your shoulders slump in silent surrender. Unable to deny the weight of their worry, you parted your lips, letting Will tilt your chin just enough so both he and Hannibal could peer inside.

A faint gasp escaped Will as he saw the small puncture in your cheek, the fresh bead of crimson welling against your lower molars. Hannibal’s lips flattened into a thin line, and a flicker of displeasure darkened his gaze. In the grand scheme of things, it was a small wound, but it spoke volumes to them—volumes about how you had been coping alone.

Hannibal’s voice was low, edged with concern. “You’ve been hurting yourself to avoid biting us.” It wasn’t a question; it was a quiet statement of fact.

Will let go of your chin carefully. “Why?” he asked, his brows knitting together.

You swallowed thickly, your hand hovering near your mouth in a subconscious attempt to hide the injury you’d just revealed. “Alana said it’s weird. The biting,” you whispered, your voice unsteady. “I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

A stretch of silence followed your confession, Hannibal and Will exchanged a look—a silent conversation filled with understanding and mild anger toward Alana’s interference. Will’s gaze softened as he turned back to you. “We told you before,” he reminded you gently, “you don’t have to hide this from us. You’re not hurting us—”

“—nor inconveniencing us,” Hannibal interrupted, stepping closer again. The resolute calm in his eyes steadied you. “In fact, we’ve grown quite accustomed to it, and dare I say, fond of it. Your habit is part of who you are.”

You glanced down, feeling the sting of tears threatening in your eyes. “I just…I didn’t want you to get sick of me, or to think I was some sort of burden.”

Will’s hand found yours, his fingers threading through with a gentle squeeze. “That’s not possible,” he murmured. “We miss it…miss you being comfortable around us.”

Hannibal placed a hand against your cheek, being mindful of your tender injury. “You never need to hurt yourself on our behalf,” he said, voice quiet but unyielding. “Any pain you feel—physical or otherwise—we’d much rather help you carry it, not watch you bury it inside.”

At those words, a sharp wave of relief pulsed through you, along with an ache of regret for having doubted them. You inhaled shakily, letting yourself lean just a fraction closer to Hannibal’s touch, feeling the stability it offered. Will eased his other hand around your waist, tugging you gently in his direction. Sandwiched between them, you could almost believe nothing else mattered.

“I’m sorry,” you managed, blinking away the tears that threatened to fall. “I…I’ll try not to hide it anymore.”

Will’s lips quirked into a small, comforting smile. “No more chewing on your cheek,” he said, voice warm with affection. “You’ll let us help, right?”

With a hesitant nod, you felt Hannibal’s hand slide from your cheek to the back of your head, urging you closer until your forehead rested against his shoulder. He cast a glance at Will, who leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your temple. Despite the swirl of emotions, you felt a gentle calm in their presence—a sense of being anchored.

[love-toxin]

@ eric draven, hes goth and metal And he kills people AND hes a feminist. literally the whole package what else could u want <33

UNNNNNGHHH AND HE'S GOT THE BIG WET PUPPY EYES GRRRAAAAAAAAHHHH

like.....like......imagine after the events of the crow Eric doesn't go back to purgatory or pass through to the afterlife, but rather finds himself staying in the land of the living for some unknown reason. he's got his revenge, he's avenged his beloved Shelley, but what now? what's his purpose?

but the crow won't speak to him any words of either comfort or doom, so he just wanders. wanders away from his city and home until he stops somewhere on the opposite side. spends time thinking and planning and thinking until he drives himself nearly mad and falls asleep. he can't do much else, or at least thinks he can't. when he's found no better place to roam he returns home, but when he steps up the curb to his apartment, he sees lights on upstairs. something dark stirs in him--protectiveness, maybe, he's sensitive to his home being invaded for obvious reasons--but when he leaps up and perches on the ledge of the shattered window he sees somebody he's never met before.

you're just standing in his apartment, sweeping up shards of broken glass like you own the place. humming to yourself. he remembers, briefly, what it was like when there was music in his home. but it used to be Shelley's laughter, and now there's a soft-eyed stranger singing a quiet tune in the lamplight, and he feels the same as he did back then. he sticks to the shadows because he doesn't know what to expect, but you just step lightly around the pile and sweep the glass shards into your dustpan. there's a little electric lantern keeping the place aglow and a few small bags of meager luggage huddled at the front door.

it occurs to him that you might be the new resident as he coldly watches you from a distance. it's obvious that the apartment would be repurposed at some point after his death, but how do you feel knowing that you're taking over the home of a dead man? that you'll lay your head in the same place where a couple were brutally and viciously murdered? where Shelley, his Shelley, was-

you tilt your head. your ears perked at the imperceptible sound and you nearly caught him staring, but he's a lot faster to hide than you are to see.

he leaves soon after that, but he finds himself returning every night. he learns things about you. you're industrious, for one--you work on the apartment whenever you're not working your job, both of which are tough, and you sleep on a hard mattress on the floor. you spend such a long time cleaning but when you find little things left behind of his or Shelley's, you don't throw them out. maybe you feel bad for them. maybe you know exactly what happened, and you don't want to disrespect their memory.

maybe you're a really, really good person that lives for a better world. Eric can't help but think that when he watches you tirelessly slave over renovating his apartment--he can't ever quite see it as something not of his own--taking down what was broken and making it into something beautiful again. he doesn't know you that well, he only hears your voice when you're talking on the phone or singing in the shower, but he grows to like you. you're gentle. you smile at little things and you laugh as sweetly as you cry. even when you feel frustrated or betrayed, when you get violent and punch something out of anger, you just feel it in such a raw way that it entrances him. you're complex. you're gorgeous. you're someone he could very easily fall in love with, but you don't deserve to feel his hurt in the way that he does. you can't shoulder his burdens with him when they're just too great for a mortal life.

so he resorts to watching you and feeling badly about it. he's kind of stalking you at this level, but he goes nowhere beyond following you to work and back and occasionally glancing through your window to make sure you're okay. one time he caught you freshly out of the shower with your towel nowhere in sight--you were out of clean ones and had to go digging--and he felt so bad about it he couldn't be around your place for weeks. but you deserve protection and all the love in the world, and if he can't give you one he can at least give you the other. at this point he would never forgive himself, he would probably burn down the whole city if what happened to him and Shelley happened to you. he would truly lose his mind.

it's only when you catch him that he has to stop and think on what he's doing, because there's no way he can explain himself properly--perching atop the roof of your apartment with the crow grooming its feathers at his side. when you stumble across him he wasn't even paying attention, just keeping an ear out for any screams or cries for help, but you mesmerize him because you're just so....so...

"are you....cold?"

kind. you're so warm he couldn't think of shivering in your presence. from that day on you're aware of his presence but you don't mind it. you welcome it. you don't know who he really is and you probably wouldn't believe him if he told you, but you welcome him in and that's fine because he really, truly is in love with you now. he has to be. because there's no way that his silent heart would start beating again for any other reason, even if it's just a trick of the mind and it's not really true. you touch his hands and feel cold skin and he's definitely still not alive, but he doesn't feel quite as dead as he was, and every day he spends growing closer and closer to you he feels death growing into a curse over a promise. maybe he doesn't really want to go back to sleep after all...not if the world has people like you, and not if a person like you could start feeling something for a restless, morbid soul like him.

[mauswyx]

quick tommy sketch :p

[applesontheground]

I’m new here, I’m not sure if you accept requests for x readers but if you could do Asa Emory x reader (possibly wife reader) who knits him scarfs/ gloves and stitches his name into his clothes (clothes such as jumpers, the waistline of underwear, shirts, vests e.c.) I’d really appreciate it!! Ofc it’s fine if you ignore this, keep safe and take good care of yourself!! Xx

hi! it's been awhile since i've done the headcanon format, so i don't mind this at all! thanks for the well wishes (and for being VERY patient since sending this in not last february, but the one before that ... yeesh. i'm sorry and i hope i could make the wait worth it ;; )

headcanons - asa emory with a knitting/sewing spouse!reader

(p.s. the reader does not know about the collector, just to make it extra sneaky beaky)

He has a hand in a few "sewing" techniques himself, so whether this is something shared with him early on or all the way until after your marriage is well underway, he's smitten by it all the same. Everyone needs a hobby, after all.

Just sitting together, after another night where university work had kept him late, the two of you popping all personal bubbles in a way where you can still work and he decompresses. Sometimes talking, sometimes just finding a good cuddle position to make it work. I like the rowboat position, sitting between his legs and both of you splayed on the couch in pajamas while he reads, a hand around your waist and staying out the way as you work.

The tokens for him, a scarf with your best attempt at a centipede down the middle, gloves with little pillbugs on them since they're easier, etc. ... he only wears them to work, preserving them the best he can/saving them for when it's utterly cold outside, etc.

The one time he's talkative with coworkers is when they ask about the garments, and he loves to simply state with big, thoughtful eyes back down on the scarf/gloves/etc.:"My [wife/husband/spouse] made them, [he's/she's/they're]great with the needle work."

The sewing into the tags is something you start to do one year in secret, maybe for Valentine's Day just to show the care you feel alongside the usual date/gifts/etc. for whenever he sees it next.

You think you did something wrong with the way he comes home maybe months after, holding his jacket out to you with a bright green ASA stitched in the tag. "When did this start, my sweet!?" He's embarrassed, elated, just head over heels at a small detail getting past him for so long, and that is when you start noticing any new piece of clothing with a tag missing its ASA routinely left out after laundry.

You see a balaclava in one of your sewing workbooks, joke to him about making him one in assumption he wouldn't want to look ready to rob a bank during the Winter. He doesn't find it funny, and the next day you find an abundance of black yarn and fabrics in your stockpile, whatever he remembers it needing. If that's what the husband wants, I meannn...

He wears it under the Collector mask during the colder months, the colder jobs even. Some spots in the hotel have to be a little bit cold to preserve what he has going on in there.

Some of his victims have your name sewn onto them just because he wants to know how to do it, too. The ones that he doesn't leave to be found, anyways. Someone's still got a widdle crush after all this time. :)

[avintmich]

-You are my only angel, my love

You didn't know that with Vincent, any place in the town of Ambrose can be truly beautiful because of him

[q0717]

girl help im drowning

[nma-nekro]

the original Husbands of Horror

happy lvl-up to matthew lillard ♡ and skeet ulrich (i know im late like 4 days but shhhhh)

[hiimycutiepatootie]

GUYS I NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED NEED THIS MAN AS MY HUSBAND LIKE RIGHT NOW😫

why he gotta be so fine and such a literal CUTIE PIE LIKE WTF THOMAS?!?!?!?!?

🩷o🩷

like- sir come here and pound into me like damn😒

he’s so cute, he’s handsome, he’s big, he’s tall, he doesn’t talk, he’s a softie, he’s a mamas boy, he looks caring, he would love cuddles and forehead kisses, and loves being complimented ^^

[luvcozy]

The Nevermoor boys taking care of sick MC

Warnings :- Reader has the flu, mentions of throwing up, use of mc, established relationships, Ghost being the drama queen he is, scared Jay cause he doesn't like you not feeling well, Mike being lost partially in what to do to help mc

🐑 "Mc? Why do you look so... pale?"

🐑 The moment it's said is the moment you regretfully throw up and make him freak out, horrifically caught off guard

🐑 He's never had to deal with someone sick like this, so your gonna have to walk him through it while he tries to learn to help you

🐑 He's tripping over himself getting you water and helping you stumble to the bathroom to get washed up and changed

🐑 He makes you sit with you back propped against the wall while he scrambles around to find a towel and a comfy change of clothes for you

🐑 Running you a warm bath, he refuses to leave your side, so now your propped against his chest as he sits in the tub with you, gently rubbing your palm with his thumb

🐑 "I can wash myself, you know that Jay."

🐑 "Yeah but, I wanna help you feel better, I don't like seeing you all... bleh."

🐑 He makes you laugh the entire time he's with you, it's better than feeling like your insides are trying to leave your body

🐑 He helps wash your body and your hair, almost falling asleep if he didn't keep you awake against it

🐑 Helping you get back to your bed, he would tuck you in and make sure your alright every chance he can get

🐑 He's not really someone that can cook anything special, but he does his best to make you a soup for your stomach, but that ends up with him burning his hand and burning said soup

🐑 Instead you move a chair into the kitchen much to his disapproval and help him try to make some oatmeal

🐑 It's not soup, it's not what his mother said that would help with an upset stomach, but seeing you eat something and not hack it up makes him smile as he eats a bit with you

🐑 He would carry you back to your room, picking you up after washing the dishes and putting away some of the leftovers, leaning against him was soothing, he was warm

🐑 Once you were laid back in your bed you tugged him back down with you, stumbling over his own feet as he caught himself to look at you

🐑 "Lay down with me, please?"

🐑 The way you give him a pouting face as he jumbles his words, only to crawl in next to you under the covers

🐑 You nuzzled into his chest in a comfortable silence, muttering a few words as you took in his body heat and fell asleep

🐑 The next morning when you awoke he was nowhere to be seen, but you were practically swaddled in the blanket you were both in, his sweet gesture in hoping the next time he sees you your better 💛

🦊 "Hey! Little Devil, where do you think your h- EW!"

🦊 He finds you hunched over the toilet puking your entire soul out of your body, he wasn't expecting to find you sick, of all things

🦊 Grumbling and complaining the whole time he's helping you clean yourself up off the floor and into a bath

🦊 He's not getting in with you, as much as he likes being a little shit with you and teasing, he's not pushing that into something like this, that includes you possibly getting him sick

🦊 Helps you wash yourself up and gets you your pajamas to slip into, though he helps you into them after seeing you wobble with a few steps

🦊 Darkness be damned he doesn't like seeing you sick like this, though he is cracking jokes and trying to keep things lighter than they are

🦊 "Can't even walk straight when I'm around, you flatter me~"

🦊 Has the basic skills to cook you some ramen with an extra serving of broth for your stomach, even if you complain he will ensure you drink and eat it all

🦊 Ends up just feeding you the broth after you bout spill the bowl in both of your laps, the way he jumped into the floor so quick had you cackling at him for 5 minutes straight

🦊 "Shut up it's not even that funny, now drink your broth you walking corpse!"

🦊 Glaring the whole time your giggling and drinking the rest of your broth be fixed for you, he won't say it but seeing you laughing is better than seeing you hunched over the toilet or trash

🦊 Takes the dishes to the sink and let's them soak in some hot water as he makes his way back to you

🦊 As he's making sure your comfortable and all set you grab as his harness strap and pull him gently towards you, asking him to stay with you

🦊 Brain is flatlining as he looks you over and calls you a baby for needing him there with you, but you know he stays when he starts complaining about it

🦊 "Can't even go a night without seeing me can you? Geez what am I supposed to do, rub your belly, make it feel better?"

🦊 Crawls into bed with you, rolling you into his side while swinging an arm around your shoulders to hold

🦊 If you try to lean in and kiss him while thanking him his free hand is moving to cover your mouth just before you can, he doesn't do puke breathe

🦊 If your upset he won't let you kiss him he'll start poking fun at how desperate you are for him just for a kiss, brings his cheeky smile to his face

🦊 When you eventually clock out for the night he's there the whole time, bored af, but he's there for you cause you wanted him there with you

🦊 When you wake up he's nowhere to be found, but he did make sure you had some water next to the bed with a cheeky fox mask drawn on it saying 'drink your water little devil' 🧡

🐺 "..."

🐺 Finds you stuck on the couch with tissues scattered and the trash sat next to you

🐺 He would only look you over and tilt his head essentially asking what's wrong with you

🐺 He's not ever dealt with another physically sick person, so right now your both treading on new ground

🐺 Once you explain that your not feeling well and have some stomach bug he tilts his head at you, a bug? In your stomach?

🐺 You've asked if he's ever felt sick before, not wanting to hardly move, can't really eat anything, puking

🐺 It's just your luck when he shakes his head, keeping his eyes trained on you as you say up from you laying position, listening to what you said he would try to push you to lay back down

🐺 "Sick."

🐺 "Yes, very much so, but there's ways to help with being sick."

🐺 He would tail after you like a lost puppy, helping you gather things you need and carrying them to the bathroom as you start a shower up

🐺 Would watch you intently as you discard your clothes and jump into the shower, after a few heartbeats next thing you know he's in the shower with you with only his mask left on of course

🐺 He more acts as your support if you stumble or need something to lean against, leaning against his chest is far better than the wall

🐺 After the shower you both step out and redress, before he can turn around to face you a towel is thrown over his head followed by your hands

🐺 You work to dry his hair, while he's sitting on the toilet seat, when he can finally face you he returns the gesture, mimicking what you did to him, making your smile return and laugh sweetly at his actions

🐺 Listen, he may know a certain amount of things and not some others, but you will be making your own soup, he's never cooked a day in his life- or past life anyway

🐺 Won't eat with you but he will help clean up and sit with you as you eat, watching every movement, catching onto all the sluggish movements you had

🐺 Catching his gaze from the corner of your eyes you chuckle, holding up a spoon full of the soup to him, exchanging looks he would comply and take the spoon into his mouth, a little him leaving him as he tasted it

🐺 After soup he would pull you to lay on top of him and draping the blanket you had over you before over you both as you made yourself comfortable against his chest

🐺 He's running his hand up and down your back as you lay together, the body heat being beyond enjoyable along with the action, lulling you into a comfortable sleep

🐺 When you wake up your in a room, tucked into bed snuggly, by yourself yes, but on the nightstand is another bowl of the soup you had made, he put it out for you since it seemed to help you well enough before 🤍

🐽 "Feeling better piglet?"

🐽 This man had his hand on your back and the other holding anything away from your face as you barfed

🐽 He's not new to being sick or dealing with it, he knows what he should do and what can help you, even if you make it stubborn

🐽 Already has a bath ready for you to sit and soak in when your done expelling your bowels, helping you undress and moving to sit you in the bath

🐽 While your laying in the bath he's off to find you some comfy clothes to change into, when he returns he has pajamas with an oversized shirt for you

🐽 "Piglet, come on, let's get you to a bed."

🐽 Picks you up bridal style after your changed and takes to a room and lays you on the bed, forcing the blanket over you after several attempts at him trying to do it nicely

🐽 He knows that the best was to get rid of a cold is to rest and sweat it out, so he's stuck listening to you complain about being to warm the whole time

🐽 Once he gets you to stop being so restless he leaves and returns with a hot towel to lay over your forehead, the heat being different and soothing you to sigh contently while he squeezes your hand

🐽 Makes a damn good soup. He knows how to cook and with something easy to eat he'll settle down himself knowing you've eaten

🐽 He feeds you the soup while your propped up, spooning you the warm liquid while telling you stories about how he would do the same for his brothers, how you make it better than they did

🐽 He doesn't leave your side for very long intervals, only leaving to weave in and out of the room if you need something or changing out the hot towel

🐽 "You don't need to stress, I'm here to help you till your better piglet."

🐽 Makes sure to clean up the dishes and puts away the soup he made so you have some for later

🐽 When he changes the towel out for the last time he moves to the other side to flop down next to you, chainsaw placed on a table in the room

🐽 He pulls you into his chest that you happily comply too, nesting yourself against his large welcoming frame, arms draped over his body

🐽 You feel his arms encircle your waist and one acting as your pillow as you cling to his body, mumbling thankful words into his chest

🐽 A deep chuckle rolling through his chest and out of his mouth as he trails his fingers along your waist, drumming them against your hip followed with a squeeze

🐽 The last thing you did before you finally fell asleep was running a hand up to cup his cheek, thumb caressing the apple of it as he pressed a kiss into your palm

🐽 When you woke up, he sadly was no where to be found, nor his chainsaw, with a blanket wrapped around you making your way into the kitchen, a small bowl with warmed soup next to a note saying 'I heated some up before I had to go, eat up and get better piglet' 💚

[cece693]

hello^^ i have a slightly odd request

would you be willing to do something with Hannibal where like the reader is just off-putting constantly? like always has a blank expression and is just really morbid to the point of weirding out other people- (also whether or not reader is another killer and their relationship is up to you :]) ((and if possible could reader have an obsession with rats? if not its fine!^^))

thank you and no pressure!!! :3

Birds of a Feather (Platonic! Hannibal Lecter x GN! Reader)

Thanks for the request. Since you gave me creative liberty with what relationship the reader has with Hannibal, I'm expanding my creativity and trying to write platonic fanfics. Due to this, and my heart belonging to Hannigram, Will makes an appearance (not Abigail though, never got into her character.) Hope you enjoy it!

Hannibal Lecter had long believed himself immune to the bonds of familial connection. His life was one of solitude by choice, his relationships shallow performances for an unknowing audience. Yet with them—the peculiar, morbid teenager now under his guardianship—something had shifted. He hadn’t planned for this. He had taken them in because he saw a reflection of himself, unpolished and raw, with the potential to be something extraordinary. What he hadn’t anticipated was how deeply he would come to care for them, not as a mentor or an observer, but as a father.

They had first come to Hannibal at their parents’ insistence, dragged into his office under a banner of concern that barely masked their parents’ disdain. They hadn’t even tried to soften the language of their complaint: “They’re morbid. Obsessed with disgusting things like rats and death. They don’t have friends, they don’t smile. They’re weird. Can you fix them?”

Hannibal had known immediately what kind of parents they were—shallow, image-obsessed individuals for whom their child’s uniqueness was an inconvenience to be smoothed over, rather than a gift to be celebrated. He despised them almost as much as they seemed to despise their child. The teenager, however, had been fascinating. When Hannibal asked why they were there, they answered with a flat, emotionless voice.

"Because my parents don’t like me. They think I’m broken."

"And are you?" Hannibal asked, his tone warm, though his eyes studied them sharply.

They had tilted their head slightly, their gaze piercing and calm. "I don’t know. I don’t care if I am."

That first session had been an exercise in subtlety. Hannibal, as always, sought to probe beneath the surface, to see the layers of a person’s mind unfold before him. But with them, there were no layers—no artifice, no carefully constructed mask. They were disarmingly blunt, their morbid interests laid bare without shame.

"I like rats," they said when Hannibal asked what brought them joy. "I have nine of them. Bubonic’s my favorite."

"And why rats?" Hannibal inquired, his curiosity piqued.

"They’re smart. Loyal. They don’t care if you’re weird. They’ll eat a corpse if you leave it there, but it’s not personal. It’s just what they do. Survival instincts."

Their answers were a study in pragmatism, unvarnished and unfiltered. Over time, Hannibal learned more about their life—how their parents had ridiculed their passions, belittled their intellect, and dismissed their feelings as irrelevant. How they had found solace in the company of creatures most would find repugnant, and how they had begun to retreat into themselves, building walls not out of fear but out of indifference.

"My parents said they’d throw them out if I didn’t stop," they admitted one day, their voice betraying the faintest tremor. "The rats. They don’t like them. They don’t like me."

"And how does that make you feel?" Hannibal asked.

They paused, their blank expression unchanging. "I’d kill them if they touched my rats."

Hannibal had smiled faintly at that, sensing not a hollow threat but a declaration of what they believed was justice. Hannibal saw his relationship with the teen as one purely beneficial to him—some form of entertainment during the stagnant moment his life had fallen into. But when the teen arrived one day in session visibly shaken and on the verge of tears, Hannibal felt immense anger.

"Tell me what happened." he said, his voice calm but edged with steel.

The teen sat down at the chair and looked at their hands, fingers trembling. "My dad killed Bubonic," they said quietly. "He was going on again about how weird it was for a person my age to be such a recluse, how disappointed he was in me for not being the child he envisioned. I didn't care, I screamed at him to leave me alone. That all I needed was my rats, he didn't listen," They sputtered, tears finally escaping their eyes.

Hannibal's hands rested lightly on the arm of his chair, though his grip tightened imperceptibly as the teen’s words sank in. Their voice, typically steady and detached, was cracking under the weight of their grief, and Hannibal found himself unprepared for the surge of emotion it evoked in him.

"What did he do?" Hannibal asked, his voice gentle, though his mind already painted the scene in vivid detail.

The teen sniffed, struggling to steady their voice. "He grabbed Bubonic. Said if I loved those 'vermin' so much, then I’d learn what happens when I waste my life on them. He threw him. Against the wall." Their hands trembled in their lap, and then clenched into fists. "I couldn’t stop him. I tried, but I couldn’t—"

Hannibal interrupted softly, his voice firm yet soothing. "It is not your fault. Bubonic’s death lies entirely with your father. You mustn’t take the blame for his cruelty."

They nodded, though their tears continued to fall. For a moment, the room was silent, save for their quiet sobs. Hannibal remained perfectly still, his expression a mask of calm, though inside, a storm brewed. He had long mastered the art of restraint, of hiding the depths of his emotions behind a practiced façade. But now, the threads of that mask were straining.

His anger was not the fiery, impulsive kind that consumed lesser men. It was cold, methodical, the kind that calculated every step of its revenge with precision. He had no doubt about what he needed to do. Bubonic’s death was an affront to the teen’s spirit, an insult to their resilience and individuality, and Hannibal would not allow such an act to go unpunished.

He rose from his chair, moving to kneel in front of them, a gesture of rare intimacy. Gently, he placed a hand on their shoulder, grounding them. His touch was firm yet comforting, like the anchor they so desperately needed.

"You loved him," Hannibal said quietly. "And that love was real. It is not diminished by what your father did. Bubonic mattered, and his memory will not be forgotten."

They looked at him, their tear-filled eyes meeting his calm, steady gaze. For the first time, Hannibal saw a flicker of something beyond their usual detachment—trust, fragile and hesitant, but there. He gave them a faint, reassuring smile, careful to keep the rage simmering inside him hidden from view.

That evening, as Hannibal sat alone in his study, the weight of his decision settled over him like a second skin. He had already made up his mind; there was no room for doubt. The teen’s father was an unworthy man, cruel and petty, whose actions had irreparably harmed his child. The wife was not better, for who would allow such affronts to happen to your child? Hannibal would ensure neither had the opportunity to inflict such pain again.

The deaths were orchestrated with Hannibal’s usual elegance. The scene was staged as a tragic home invasion, violent enough to mislead even the sharpest investigators. The teen’s parents were swept away as easily as pawns on a chessboard, leaving Hannibal free to step into the role of guardian.

It was an arrangement he presented to the authorities as a matter of practicality—after all, he was their trusted psychiatrist, a respected member of the community. And with no other family member willing to take in the 'troubled' youth, Hannibal was seen fit as a caregiver. But in truth, it was far more than that. It was an act of reclamation, a way to give the teen a life they needed and deserved.

Under Hannibal’s guidance, they began to flourish. What had once been a life of isolation and condemnation was replaced with warmth, curiosity, and purpose. Hannibal nurtured their sharp intellect, encouraging them to explore philosophy, art, and science. He fed their fascination with decay and life cycles, finding ways to weave their morbid interests into lessons that expanded their understanding of the world.

Their rats, once crammed into a small cage hidden away from disapproving eyes, now thrived in a custom-built enclosure—a miniature ecosystem of tunnels and habitats that Hannibal had crafted himself. The teenager spent hours tending to them, speaking softly to each one as though they were old friends. Slowly but surely, they grew more confident, their once-detached demeanor softened by the security of knowing they were finally, unquestionably accepted.

So, when Will Graham entered their lives, Hannibal saw an opportunity to complete the family he hadn't realized he was building. At first, Will’s presence unsettled the teen. He was different from Hannibal—more empathetic, less polished. But there was something grounding about Will’s quiet intensity, his ability to understand without needing words.

Their relationship began cautiously, with the teen watching Will from the corner of their eye during his visits, studying him as though he were one of the rats they loved so much. But Will, ever patient, allowed them to come to him on their terms. Over time, the cracks of their tentative bond filled with shared silences and soft-spoken observations.

"You remind me of my rats," the teen said one day, tilting their head at Will as they sat together in the study.

Will blinked, unsure if it was meant as an insult. "How so?"

"You’re always watching. Thinking one step ahead compared to everyone else."

Will glanced at the teenager, amused. "I don’t know if I should be flattered or mildly offended."

They shrugged, their gaze steady and calm. "It’s a compliment. Rats are survivors. They’re smart, and they don’t waste energy pretending to be something they’re not. You’re like that."

Will leaned back in his chair, folding his arms thoughtfully. "Smart and a survivor, huh? Could be worse."

"Definitely worse," they replied, their tone so matter-of-fact that it made Will laugh softly. "You’d be terrible at being fake, anyway."

SMALL TIME SKIP

Hannibal leaned back in his armchair, his fingers lightly drumming against the armrest as he observed the scene before him. It was a tableau of quiet intimacy—his beloved Will Graham, seated cross-legged on the floor, and the teenager sprawled out beside him, their rats darting around like tiny, mischievous shadows.

Will had one hand resting lightly on the floor to keep himself steady while the other hovered hesitantly near one of the rats. "So, uh," he began, his tone unsure but willing, "what happens if I try to touch it? Am I going to lose a finger?"

The teen smirked faintly, their usual neutral demeanor softening just enough to give away their amusement. "Maybe. Cholera’s got a temper, but the others are fine. You just have to be calm."

Will huffed a quiet laugh, his tension easing slightly. "Calm, huh? Should be easy enough."

"You’re always tense," the teen said bluntly, tilting their head as they watched him. "The rats can tell. You should probably breathe or something."

Hannibal’s lips curved into an indulgent smile at their candor. He adored how effortlessly they spoke their mind—so different from the guarded subtleties most people employed. And Will, bless his complex mind, seemed entirely charmed by it.

"I am breathing," Will retorted, his tone carrying a note of mock indignation. "Maybe I’m just…different from rats."

"That’s debatable," the teen quipped, though their smirk grew into something warmer as one of the bolder rats sniffed at Will’s hand before scampering up his arm.

Will froze, his eyes wide, and Hannibal chuckled softly. "It seems you’ve been accepted," he remarked, his tone rich with amusement. "An honor not given lightly, I assure you."

The teen nodded solemnly, as though Hannibal’s words were gospel. "Yeah. If Cholera likes you, you’re okay."

Will glanced between them, his lips twitching into a bemused smile. "Well, that’s a relief. I’d hate to be rejected by…Cholera."

The rat in question perched on Will’s shoulder, chittering softly, and the teen gave a rare, genuine laugh—a sound that caught both Will and Hannibal off guard. Hannibal’s chest swelled with warmth at the sight of the two bonding, the sharp edges of their respective personalities softening as they found common ground.

For Hannibal, this was more than he could have hoped for. Watching Will, the man who had captured his heart with his brilliance and empathy, and his ward, the child who had become the unexpected center of his world, grow closer felt like the culmination of something profound. He had orchestrated many things in his life, but this—this was pure serendipity.

Will, still adapting to the chaos of rats scurrying across him, glanced up at Hannibal. "You’re awfully quiet over there," he said, his voice light but curious. "Enjoying the show?"

Hannibal’s smile deepened, his eyes warm as they met Will’s. "Immensely," he replied. "It is rare to witness such harmony. You’ve both surprised me."

The teen, still laughing softly, looked between them and said, "You’re both weird, but I think that’s why this works."

Will raised an eyebrow, glancing at Hannibal. "Weird, huh? I guess I’ll take that."

"As will I," Hannibal added smoothly, his tone affectionate. "Weirdness, after all, is simply a deviation from the ordinary. And I would have no other way for our family."

The word hung in the air—family—and for a moment, all three of them sat in a comfortable silence. The fire crackled, the rats chittered, and the connection between them felt solid, unshakable. Hannibal, watching the two people he cared for most in the world bond so effortlessly, allowed himself a rare moment of unguarded happiness. This was it. This was home.

[barbedwirecockring]

😢vincent

[your-stranger-halfblood-things]

Billy definitely fingers Stu's wounds before patching him up, maybe even says some fucked up shit to get Stu hard while his fingers play with the bloody muscle, and then he makes Stu clean his fingers by licking them up, savoring the taste of his own blood and Billy's skin

[sistertonin]

CINEMA 🤏🏿

[goblindickhead]

Heh

made by ME

[oceanicjessie]

|| SCREAM ART SPAM DOODLE POST ||

Since my drawing tablet is still not in use and I haven't got a replacement wire yet, I figured I'd post some traditional / doodles I made on my brother's tablet on the notes app. If you follow me on Instagram, you may have seen the bottom doodles before. I did the top Stuilly bridal drawing today. I miss my tablet but I GUESS drawing traditionally isn't a form of torture.. sometimes. ฅʕ•̫͡•ʔฅ