#this is virtually incomprehensible

[unorcadox]

i sometimes wish tumblr, instead of or alongside showing me plain follower count, would show me the number of people who actively interact with me (in the last month or so)

like i feel like that would be a much more useful and interesting metric to actually understand things through

[lunarharp]

back to drawing days

[findekano]

actually i’m so obsessed with fëanor and fingolfin’s name drama. picturing fingolfin so pissed off about nelyafinwë that he goes well i’m going to name my firstborn a better version of your second son’s name see how you feel about that!!! what is wrong with them

[altarcup]

re-reading sh*tter me, do i need help?

[myhousedotwad]

I'm Rhys the guy from 5thJerma. And our country is experiencing a horrible problem. No one is playing with chevron cars. Chevrons is cars too guys.

[headspace-hotel]

i spent like 5 hours deep diving into the blog of some guy who self identifies as a "rationalist" and looking at the array of opinions/ideas being expressed on the blog and in the comments

made me think about how "the left" is actually really, really homogeneous in terms of beliefs that are acceptable to express and discuss, whereas with "centrist" and "the right" you see written out the internal variety and incoherence that I think characterizes most peoples beliefs and ideas

i forgot the name of the blog, i'll find it again later. basically the guy self identifies as "anti-woke" at the same time as being progressive on some aspects of society, "centrist" on others, and...definitely not fascist but kind of "reddit evo-psych" on a few, pursuing a general open-minded approach to things.

it definitely made a few things click for me in terms of right wing stereotypes of "leftists" and concern with "cancel culture." At one point he discusses his experience being ""cancelled"" for a comment that got misunderstood, and from the description, the harassment, threats of harm and isolation that ensued were genuinely traumatic.

It honestly reminded me of my experiences on Tumblr, where since I was 18 I've been writing posts about whatever I happen to be learning or thinking about at the time--- some of which were ignorant or poorly worded or offensive--- and getting hate for it.

Before I turned off asks completely and sort of walled myself off from engaging in discussions with people, I got messages constantly telling me to kill myself, or that the world would be a better place if I was dead, or that [speaker] hoped I would die, or that I was virtually every kind of bigot you could imagine, and at least some number of political bloggers on here nursed enough of a long-term hatred of me that I actively came to mind as someone they despised.

This was in fact distressing, especially the fact that I could never predict what kind of post would elicit this reaction and nothing I did would make it stop.

It's easy to dismiss this as just, like, the typical online experience, and I dismissed it myself like "yeah yeah who hasn't gotten a bunch of suicide bait for making a poorly worded joke"...but it really shouldn't be. It occurs to me now that normalizing receiving harassment also normalizes participating in it. And if my real life face and name were attached to this account, that kind of harassment would be fucking terrifying.

It also occurs to me that "the right" despite having an incomprehensible array of beliefs on non-essentials, are not constantly acting like they want to kill each other with hammers.

Jack Posobiec's Unhumans, despite being a work of fascist garbage, had a gleam of genuine insight in it: when suggesting strategies for countering the "left," it mostly recommended not directly engaging and instead waiting for the left to rip itself apart internally. It seems like multiple right-wing writers and bloggers have suggested walking back the criticisms of "cancel culture" simply because leftists harm other leftists much more with "cancel culture" than they do their actual political enemies.

I'm thoughtful about it...

[dirtyvulture]

Pandora's Box - Part 3

Tomb Raider!Natasha Romanoff x Fem!Enchantress!Reader

18+ only, read at your own risk

Summary: Natasha has spent years hunting the elusive Pandora’s Box, which many say doesn’t even exist. What happens when she not only finds it, but accidentally unleashes the sinister force hiding within?

Word count: 2715

AN: Didn't forget about this series, prepare for things to get hot in here...☺️

Click here to read Part 2.

Natasha stands at the back of the room, observing the sea of darkly-clothed people bobbing in and out of the church pews. She was surprised to see so many in attendance; most of them were Pietro’s students and athletes, distinguishable by the university logo pinned to their clothing. A number of faculty–including Natasha and her team–were here too, and a mass of non-university associated people.

There had been no other casualties besides Pietro in the freak accident at the coffee shop. The owner of the car had been located, but he had been shopping at the plaza a few blocks down, and no eyewitnesses had come forward about seeing anyone else get into the vehicle. A cinder block had been taped to the gas pedal, stumping police on who put it there and steered the vehicle towards the coffee shop in the first place.

But Natasha knew who it was, even if she couldn’t rationally explain it to the police. Wanda had survived too, and secretly she hoped you would return soon for a second attempt, if only so she had another chance to see you. 

She couldn’t stop thinking about you. Your breath-taking beauty. The incomprehensible scale of your powers. She craves your touch again, and perhaps something more. No woman she had ever met before had taken up so much of her attention. You infiltrate her dreams every night, but always stop short of giving her what she wants. Natasha is determined to meet you again. She knows your paths will cross again.

Music begins playing and the guests in the pews stand and turn their heads towards the back. Steve walks in, Wanda clamped to his arm as she hides her face behind a wad of tissues. The officiant follows them, his head bowed in respect.

Natasha listens to the service half-heartedly, most of her attention absorbed in scanning the audience for you. While it would be wildly disrespectful for you to show up to the funeral of the person you killed, she has a feeling you operate under a different agenda. But the service ends, and she still hasn’t found you, disappointment pricking her heart. Everyone is slow to rise, some forming a line to pay respects at Pietro’s closed casket, while others embrace Wanda or offer envelopes of condolences. The majority head into the room next door, where refreshments are being served amongst quiet mingling. Natasha goes that way, feeling weighed down by the sadness.

“Did you see her?” Clint bumps her shoulder out of nowhere and startles her.

“No.”

“We told you,” he says. “She might be from another time, but even she would be insane to show up to the funeral of the man she killed.”

“Assuming anything about her is your first mistake,” Natasha defends.

Clint makes a beeline for the platter of refreshments, leaving her alone again. Natasha scans the crowd once more out of habit and her heart nearly jumps out of her chest when she spots you, parting from a hug with a professor. 

You are wearing virtually the same clothing as the last time she had seen you, except in all black. At least you had some taste. Natasha is frozen when she finally makes eye contact with you, and she doesn’t know if she should tackle you or sweep you up into a kiss. You walk towards her, a little sway in your step, and Natasha fears she’s going to buckle under the sheer power you exude.

“Hello there,” you say in that devastatingly captivating accent. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Natasha says, wanting to slap herself for greeting you this way.

“No one stopped me.” You tilt your head and the moon pendant loosens from your collar and bounces against the bare skin of your collarbone. “Unless you’re going to.”

Natasha suddenly reaches out and grabs your arm. “Come with me,” she hisses. “And don’t you dare make a scene.” You drag your fingers across your lip as if sealing them shut and locking them with a key. She pulls you out into the hall and into a small conference room. 

“Oh, I’ve been waiting for you to drag me off since the moment I saw you,” you say as Natasha shuts the door. “It looks like you’re ready to devour me.”

“Shut up.” Natasha presses you up against the wall. She is embarrassingly aware of the heat pooling in her own belly and to make matters worse, you’re looking at her like she’s nothing but a meal. “Who are you? And what are you doing here?” she fires off to distract herself from her arousal.

“You know who I am, Natasha.” Natasha has to fight the shiver down her spine when her name rolls off your tongue. “And I came here to finish the job, obviously.”

“You’re not going to hurt anyone here,” Natasha says.

“Because you’re going to stop me?” Your tone is entirely mocking and Natasha can’t stand your bravado. But then you reach up and start stroking her arm, wrapping your hand around her bicep, and Natasha loses her train of thought. “What did you think was going to happen once you found my box and released me?”

“I…I didn’t mean to drop you. Release you,” Natasha stutters. “I wanted to…study you.” It is not her best choice of words.

You laugh, and it reminds Natasha of the delicate notes of a wind chime. “I’ll let you study me all you want once I’m done with my work.” 

Natasha tries pulling her arm away from you but you grab her by the belt and yank her towards you. She stumbles trying to catch her balance and her chest presses against yours, your eyes barely a few inches apart as she has you pinned between the wall. Or perhaps you have her right where she wants you?

“You don’t have to do this,” Natasha whispers. Her heartbeat is frantic and she wonders if you can tell how nervous she is.

“Do what? I thought you wanted this.” Your hands untuck her shirt and loosen the bottom few buttons. Natasha moans when your fingers brush against her abs. “I can read your thoughts, you know,” you add in a low, sultry voice, digging your nails into the grooves between her muscles.

“I’ve seen how you want me,” you continue, leaning your head forward until your breath is warm against her cheek. “How you imagine my body against yours,” you whisper into her ear, your fingers trailing down to brush the band of her underwear. “What you think I might taste like.” You slip your hand into her underwear but don’t quite touch her where she wants. “What I would sound like when you help me reach the most earth-shattering orgasm of my life–”

Natasha grunts and thinks she’s going to combust with arousal. Where your skin touches hers, it feels like she’s on fire. She bends her knees to wrap her muscular arms under your thighs, lifting you off the floor like you’re no heavier than a paperweight and pressing your back against the wall. Your calves bracket her waist and pull her closer.

“What have you done to me?” Natasha whispers, her hands sliding up your legs to cup your butt. 

You only grin, looking down at her with your bottom lip between your teeth. Natasha’s control snaps. She pushes forward, ready to feel your lips against hers, when suddenly she’s met with a face full of…water?

“What the hell?” She opens her eyes and looks up to where water spurts from the sprinklers in the ceiling. She looks around the conference room but you’ve completely vanished. Even the lock on the door is still shut. She wipes the water out of her eyes and huffs in agitation. How many times was she going to fall into your trap?

Natasha goes to grab the door handle and yelps as the hot brass knob sizzles in her palm. She withdraws in confusion, looking at the skin on her hand beginning to blister. Between the water sprinklers and hot doorknob, she deduces there might be a fire somewhere–and she has no doubt on who could’ve started it.

But first, she needs to get out of the conference room, and there are no windows or doors other than the one she entered. Carefully pulling down the sleeves of her suit jacket like a makeshift potholder, she grabs the knob again and manages to twist it open without burning her hand.

Smoke floods the conference room as the door swings open. Natasha drops to her belly and starts crawling back to the main room, covering her mouth with a wet sleeve so she can breathe what little oxygen remains. She hears screaming and banging and digs her elbows into the carpet to propel herself forward faster. Her eyes sting from smoke, robbing her of her sight, but luckily she remembers the exact way back without needing to see. 

It takes all her strength to push open the door from her position on the floor, and the whole room is in chaos. A group of people are gathered towards the back, while another group stands by the windows. She watches as Clint grabs a metal chair and hurls it at the window, shattering the glass. Smoke funnels out, but the remaining edges of glass are too jagged for anyone to safely crawl out. Natasha gets up and pushes her way towards the crowd in the back, who hover before a pair of doors which are conveniently locked. 

“Move, move!” she demands, bringing her leg up to kick at the door with all her might. Her boot bottom, slick with water, slips across the metal to no effect.

“I tried that already!” Steve says, coming up next to her, red-faced and coughing.

“Well, keep trying!” Natasha says, backing up so he can launch his full bodyweight at the door. “Aren’t there any other exits?” she asks, seized by a coughing fit that wracks her lungs painfully. 

“This was the closest one,” Steve grunts as he rams his shoulder into the metal again.

Natasha looks around wildly for another solution. She spots a podium and grabs onto Steve before he can throw himself at the door again. “Help me!” she says, pointing at the podium, and he understands without further explanation. They race over and pick the podium off the ground, holding it perpendicular between them to use like a makeshift battering ram. But the podium is made of solid wood, slippery from the dirty sprinkler water, and the dwindling oxygen in the air makes Natasha feel far weaker than she normally is.

“Help!” she screams to the bleary-eyed guests who stand in shock. Three of them hurry forward and grab any available space on the podium. It takes a few tries to coordinate their strengths. Natasha feels dizzy from the smoke inhalation and she can tell Steve isn’t faring much better. 

“One more! Together!” she pants, and with one final, heaving effort, the podium breaks the doors open and people spill out into the fresh air. Natasha falls to her knees, taking deep shuddering breaths. Steve lays on the grass next to her, clutching at his chest. 

“Where’s…Where’s Wanda?” Natasha eventually finds the breath to ask.

Steve shakes his head. “We got…separated,” he wheezes.

“Steve!” Anger clears her head. “Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?”

“Don’t go back in–” he tries, but Natasha is already racing into the building again. Natasha can only hope you haven’t gotten to Wanda first. She has an inkling of where Wanda might be, and she hopes she’s right because she doesn’t have time to wander around. The smoke is thicker than before and the heat hangs in the air. How come the fire department isn’t here yet?

Natasha staggers through the enormous room to the conjoining one where the ceremony had taken place. Predictably, she finds Wanda huddled by Pietro’s casket, clutching onto a bouquet of white roses.

“Wanda!” Natasha bellows, squatting down to her level and wiping water out of her eyes. “We need to go!”

“I can’t leave him again,” Wanda sobs, moving closer to the casket. 

Natasha isn’t sure how to be tactful, but given the blazing flames next door and the acrid smoke, that’s not her biggest priority right now. “I know,” she says, “But you’ll die if you stay here. He wouldn’t want that, you know.”

Wanda coughs and shakes her head in agreement. 

“Please come with me. I know the way out,” Natasha says, holding out a hand.

After a moment that seems to freeze time, Wanda accepts and Natasha pulls her up. But the smoke is too thick again, and they have to hunch over to breathe.

“I can’t do it. Just leave me,” Wanda cries, dropping to her knees.

“Never.” Natasha bends down and scoops Wanda up, although with much less confidence in her strength than usual. When she stands fully, smoke swirls around her head and blinds her. She hunches over slightly, holding Wanda close to her chest, and runs back in the direction she came from.

The ceiling shakes with a roar, and Natasha pauses midstep, afraid it will collapse on her. She isn’t sure how old the building is or if it’s properly up to code, but that won’t matter either way if her and Wanda are buried six feet under burning rubble. She holds her breath as she starts running again, but the pounding in her head grows unbearable and she has to stop to suck in ashy particles.

“We’re gonna die in here,” Wanda whimpers unhelpfully.

“We are getting out,” Natasha says, trying to look determined even though she feels scared inside. She isn’t quite sure she’s going the right way anymore either; her senses are totally disoriented and there are no reference points for her to rely on. Hesitantly, she takes a few more steps forward, weakening by the second from the lack of oxygen.

“Natasha,” Wanda says, and Natasha swears the weight in her arms is growing heavier.

“I’m…I’m…looking…” she gasps, stumbling over some chairs. Panic begins to fill her, but she knows she can’t give up just yet. She focuses on putting one foot in front of the other, but her movements become visibly sluggish and she finally collapses to her knees, the side of her leg grazing something hard.

The podium from earlier, which means the doors are nearby.  

“Here, here!” She puts Wanda on the floor and the two of them blindly grope for the doors. The ceiling rumbles again and large, flaming pieces begin raining down. Natasha shoves Wanda when she sees a wooden beam swing towards them, but it catches her arm and knocks her over, landing on top of her midsection.

“Shit!” Natasha struggles to push it off, but it’s too heavy and the angle she’s laying down doesn’t allow her to get much leverage. She hopes Wanda made it out at least. The weight is crushing against her already-overworked lungs and her vision starts to fade to black. She thinks about her team and what they’d do without her. She thinks about you, and how this is probably exactly what you had planned for her. In fact, her memories of you are so vivid it’s almost like she can see you standing over her.

Natasha blinks, but you’re still there. Maybe this isn’t a dream after all.

“Why did you come back?” you ask, looking at her with great disappointment. Natasha says nothing, staring at you with wide eyes. You kneel and push the wooden beam off her effortlessly, like it was made of plastic. “She comes from a family of traitors, you know.”

Natasha has no idea what you’re talking about. You take one of Natasha’s arms and put it behind your head, hefting her over your shoulder and standing. Natasha figures she had at least 50 pounds on you, but you carry her like a child. It’s part embarrassing, part arousing, and she grips the back of your shirt, desperate to hold herself as close to you as possible. Even through the smoke, she can smell the flowery notes of your perfume and her eyes begin to close.

“It’s not your time yet” is the last thing Natasha hears before she finally blacks out.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: Simpy!Nat is fun to write. :)

Please like, reblog, and comment! Follow for more content. 🥰

[urween]

Skittish | Bucky Barnes x ftm!reader | english version

summary: After a long battle and especially hard research, the Avengers finally found the Winter Soldier. To keep everyone safe, they keep him locked in their HQ. In semi-freedom but especially in a trance, Bucky Barnes attracts the attention of the young boy in charge of taking care of him during his stay here.

notes: I prefer to specify it, the temporality is not exactly respected. Let's say that all this takes place just after Captain America: The Winter Soldier.

⚠︎ warnings: mentions of heavy trauma related to the war and the Hydra projects, a form of depressed!Bucky, violence, weapons, incomprehension of transidentity without transphobia, mentions of suicidal thoughts.

English isn't my first language, sorry for the mistakes <3

- 2nd person description

- 5 371 words

french version here

You were the little protégé of the group, he had quickly noticed. Even if Natasha didn't have superpowers or a robotic suit either, she was part of the team. She and Clint were kind of the superhumans of the group, with superhuman abilities but nothing that surpassed Thor's lightning or Hulk's muscles. Then, there was you, a fairly normal little human with no particular specificities. High intelligence, extreme kindness and an adorable smile. But no mastery of martial arts. You knew the basics of fighting, Nat had taught you the main thing. You had ended up understanding Bruce's extravagant chemical formulas, and you understood the most important things Tony said in his intense nerd phases. But once again, you were nothing special, and that made Bucky wonder. Why was a basic human here? What were you doing in the middle of the Avengers? Even though he had missed a few decisive years from a social point of view, he didn't understand.

As he stared from his cell, he saw scenes he didn't know how to interpret. You assisting Tony Stark and Jarvis, you laughing with Bruce Banner, you helping Natasha Romanoff train, you carrying Steve Rogers' shield to him, you sorting Clint Barton's arrows, you redoing Thor's braids.

What were you doing there?

You had cheerfully introduced yourself to him. With a friendly smile on your lips, you had stated your name, first name and pronouns – he hadn't really understood this last point –. You had surely been informed of his situation. Don't be offended, he'll need a little time, someone must have whispered to you. He hadn't answered you, and you hadn't seemed offended. You had then left, and he had remained perplexed. If you already knew everything about him, why come and introduce yourself? You must have read his files, you must have all read his files. Steve had to slip away to get some air, Natasha inspected everything in detail, Bruce muttered "it’s awful". You had to read his files. See his life laid out on a large table, foreign hands going over the medical reports. You had to read with anguish the endless list of victims he had killed during his missions, observe the modifications that had been made to him, the treatments inflicted, the pains endured. You had seen all that. Then, why come see him?

"Let's just say I don't really like you hanging around this guy," Tony's voice had been saying for several minutes, "Jarvis copy this plan for me and make a 3D reconstruction with train stations, airports and all the stuff."

The holograms moved before your eyes, but you hadn't paid attention to them. Back then, the first time you saw this virtual world being modeled in Tony's office, you were like a kid. Stars in your eyes, you asked a thousand questions per second, making the creator of this program smile. But now you knew yourself how most of the "Jarvis" system worked, and you weren't so impressed anymore, or at least you weren't with every move Stark made.

"I don't see what's bothering you," you replied, innocently swinging your legs in the air.

Tony turned around with his ever-so-dramatic gestures, making a vague movement with his hand he tried to make you understand things without having to speak. Unfortunately for him telekinesis was not part of your abilities.

"Okay," he admitted to himself, defeated, "to start with his sophisticated robotic arm that could crush you before you could scream," he mimed disinterestedly, “did you look at him? Unstable and completely high."

A non-hidden smile drew a curve across your lips.

"We're still talking about Bucky Barnes?” you had fun, “because I rather have the impression that you're looking at yourself in a mirror"

You glanced at Jarvis, who was finishing your friend's request. Then, your attention went back to the billionaire who was visibly desperate to have this discussion with you – you were getting used to it, a demonstration of love coming from Tony –.

"I prefer to cut you off right now," your voice continued, "I forbid you to give me the traditional excuses like he's dangerous or armed or he's a murderer”. You got down from the table where you were sitting and gestured around the room, “look around Tony, only weapons or future weapons,” you got closer to him and pointed at his forehead, “you have the greatest weapon that humanity has ever known in this skull. Natasha and Clint are professional killers, Steve is a traumatized soldier who makes a denial, Thor is an alien with supernatural powers and Bruce is a scientist haunted by a destructive alter-ego”. You pause to admire the still indecipherable facial expression of the man in front of you, “you are all murderers and dangers to Mankind, the only difference between you and Barnes is that you chose to devote your talents to a cause, and he had no choice".

Tony remained motionless for a few long seconds, a whirlwind surely vibrating his neurons. Then, he shrugged his shoulders and quickly bowed his head in defeat.

"You're right," he declared, "I’ve no more arguments and yours are solid”, he turned and went back to Jarvis, “well done kid"

A year ago you would have been perplexed by this reaction, but time had taught you that you had to take Tony Stark with a grain of salt and observe him as you would with a foreign mushroom. All you could remember from this interaction was that you were tired, that you had won against the great megalomaniac Iron Man and above all that you had to talk to Barnes again.

No one had really agreed with Steve on the idea of ​​bringing a Hydra mercenary back to Avengers HQ. It's the equivalent of serving him our secrets on a silver platter, Clint had rightly said. You had been surprised to see Nat defend Barnes, alongside you and Steve – of course –. There was Bruce who couldn't deliver a distinct judgment, then Tony and Clint who were against. Thor having left, you didn't know where in space, the votes had therefore been closed with a majority of for.

You had helped Captain set up a room that was at least habitable in a protective cell, a bit like the one that had sheltered Loki. While the tall blond carried the fold-out bed, you had taken care of a bag of clothes – approximately Barnes' size – and another with water and sweets, this idea had come from you. You found it unfair to call this man a simple murderer, he had been manipulated and controlled. As you put the cereal bars on a small iron table, you tried not to think about the chaos that must be going on in the Winter Soldier's head at the same time. He must have been just as traumatized as his victims, maybe even more so. And finding himself in such a particular environment overnight must have been disturbing. So a chocolate bar and a soda couldn't hurt him.

Thank you, Steve had murmured, for understanding. You had given him a touching smile, holding back the urge to ask him how he felt. He had just found his best friend, who was supposed to have disappeared for several decades, and on top of that, this friend had suffered inhumane treatment for most of his life now. It was obvious that he didn't feel well, that he was helpless in the face of this situation. Bruce had advised you to give him time, and that if he needed it, he would end up talking to one of you. You had listened to his advice, and focused more on Barnes instead.

You had introduced yourself first, starting with a simple acquaintance. You had then made sure to take care of his needs, slipping in a new bottle of fresh water when the previous one was empty, opening his prison only when night fell so that he could go shower without running into a contemptuous Tony or a depressed Steve.

On this subject, rules had been established to guarantee everyone's safety. If Bucky left his cell it was always in the company of one of you – you were the only ones with the passes –, if he asked for something – which he never did – the object had to pass through several control portals before being given to him, and finally no matter where he went, toilets or showers, someone had to watch over him within the limits of privacy. Bruce had offered to take turns, but judging by the faces of the others you had volunteered to ensure most of his outings. Natasha was supposed to replace you when you weren't available, then Tony if neither of you were present. This way you had avoided conflicts but also and above all Steve wouldn't have to go there.

You didn't know him, Bucky, having only seen the videos in his file, and yet every time you went to visit him your stomach knotted. There was no question of fear, since his robotic arm had been censored to the maximum thanks to a Stark gadget, leaving him only the freedom to use it as a normal limb, without super-strength or integrated weapons. He remains a super soldier, Bruce had warned, his physical faculties are superior to Nat's and he has a serum similar to Steve's in his veins. But you weren't afraid. Unfortunately a goat would have made you shiver more than Barnes when you went to see him. He was always on pause. Never spoke, barely moving his gaze from the ground. You had been reassured to see that he ate the bare minimum, and he had even tasted a chocolate bar one day. But aside from these details, it was as if you were seeing the same robot in the same position, day after day. Your stomach knotted for these reasons, because when you brought him clean sheets he had nothing of the man you had seen on video. The rage that haunted his eyes had disappeared, there was only a nameless emptiness left, and you had never seen anything so sad. You didn't feel like you had a hundred-year-old Hydra soldier in front of you, but a broken orphan.

You spent a lot of time rereading his file, his reports, his exams. You tried to understand him through these papers. Steve was lost, he no longer saw Buck in those eyes, and you were trying to understand what he had become, Buck. According to his personal file, he had been found at the age of twenty-six before undergoing Hydra’s experiments. A photo of him, in 1943, was stuck to the paper. A shy smile on his lips, his infantry hat slightly tilted on his head and his uniform without a crease sitting proudly on his chest. A tear had seriously rolled down your cheek, ending its path in a Russian handwriting: Зимний Солдат, in other words Winter Soldier. Bruce had carried out a complete tradition of all the documents, later corrected by Natasha. Maybe rereading these texts was not good for you, but you needed it. You were the only one here who was interested in Barnes. Steve felt so guilty that he was in a kind of denial, Nat was only coldly studying the soldier’s file and let’s not even talk about the others. Bucky needed time, understanding and gentleness to at least not make his after-effects worse. You most certainly had to make mistakes, not being a psychologist by profession, but you were already doing better than your comrades and than Hydra.

"Nice evening, huh?" Your voice echoed in a leaden silence.

The sun had set for over three hours, most of the Avengers were in their rooms or gone outside, which meant that it was the perfect time for Barnes to take a shower. You had gathered your strength and went to the soldier's cell. When you had passed by, about two hours ago, he had not wanted to eat his meal so you had taken it back and heated it up again for later. With the hot dish in one hand, you carefully closed the armored glass door behind you. As you expected, Barnes had hardly moved since your last visit. Still sitting cross-legged in his bed, he seemed vaguely to notice your presence.

"I know you didn't want to eat earlier," you began, putting the meal down next to him, "but I thought that maybe your appetite had returned in the meantime."

Sometimes you were entitled to a small, hoarse "hum" from the back of his throat as a response, but you wondered if it was intentional since his gestures didn't match this slight sign of life. Unfortunately, tonight wasn't part of that "sometimes." No noise, barely a breath. But you didn't get discouraged.

The first few times you came to talk to him, his complete lack of reaction had made you wonder about his possible understanding of your language. Yet you had read that he read and spoke at least two languages, including yours. You might not understand what I'm telling you, you had mumbled while picking up his used clothes. Your biggest interaction with him had been when he had looked you straight in the eye and said in a pleasantly deep voice: I understand.

“Other than that you can-”

You were surprised to see him stand up on his own, studiously heading towards the exit door while waiting for you to open it. You were usually the one who went first to the exit, waiting two or three seconds for him to get up and join you. But this was a nice surprise, maybe it meant that his condition was improving.

Your electromagnetic pass stuck to the dashboard, a small beep sounded before you pushed the heavy door and let Barnes go first. These security questions were mandatory for you to approach the Winter Soldier. Always making him walk in front of you, making your pass inaccessible – hidden in your sleeve most of the time as Bruce had advised you –, a bladed weapon concealed against your ankle in case of trouble, and you weren't supposed to talk to him about yourself or the team. Clint had wanted to add an additional rule: not to speak to him unless necessary, to prevent any risk of manipulation. Did you look at him carefully? Had you imposed yourself in the discussion, he didn't utter any opposition during the whole process to bring him back here, and then remember his mission reports, he wasn't a spy but a mass murderer, he was programmed to speak as little as possible to his victims. Tony had agreed with you on the subject, recalling the case of Loki – once again – who was very different from Barnes.

Stupid rules, you thought as you watched the silhouette of the man in front of you advance in the long corridor. If the others saw him for more than five minutes, they would realize that he was nothing more than a victim in this cell. They all found you a little naive and they appreciated you for that, a ray of hope in the midst of chaos. Yet you were by far the one with the best perception of the others. Each villain had arguments, good or bad, you listened to them all. You reasoned with the team, making them come out of their superhero bubble to show them the possibility of a little levity.

You did not doubt the abilities of Barnes, you wanted to find yourself face to face with him even less than with Nat – and that was already a lot –. You sometimes looked again at the surveillance videos taken the day Natasha and Steve fought him for the first time. He was hypnotizing, in the way all his movements seemed to come together with such fluidity and speed, the way his body thought for him and acted accordingly. You were dizzy from a roll in comparison, so seeing it all was astounding. Of course, there were horrible explanations behind these gifts, just like most people who could reproduce all this, but you still couldn't help but analyze these videos. And then, there in that hallway, you looked at Barnes' back, his arm gleaming, the red star enthroned there, and you wondered what was going on in his mind. What he could do was inhuman, and seeing it in image reinforced that feeling.Then you had to realize that he was a human being, who had once been like you. His way of functioning had to have been completely disrupted, distorted and destroyed. We had to reduce to crumbs what had been to build what was now, that was how it worked. To adapt to a new environment we were always advised to forget everything we thought we knew, all the movies said it. In the same way that flat-earthers were convinced that the Earth was flat, Barnes no longer saw the world the way you did.

As the rules said, you discreetly put your pass in a pants pocket as you reached the bathroom. Simple locks served as security, and it was more than enough. No one except you had ever mentioned the possibility that Bucky was trying to end his life. If he did, the bathroom was the best place, which is why a simple lock would do the trick so that you or someone else could break down the door if necessary. But you avoided thinking too much about this exit, because through the few interactions you had had with him and the thoughts you had about him, you had become truly attached to him.

You opened the shower curtain, under Barnes' intrigued gaze. Each Avengers had a bathroom with the bare minimum in their room, but there were also three larger bathrooms on the second floor. These were the rooms to clean yourself in an emergency when you came back covered in blood, or Bruce went there in the event of a green alert for example. They were more accessible than the bedrooms, which explained this function. But what made Bucky curious was not that. You always gave him room number two, with a basic shower, a sink and a toilet. But there you were in number one, with a bathtub. He quickly detailed the room, slightly larger and apart from the bathtub there was nothing that differentiated it from number 2. As always, you had previously removed all objects that could be used as weapons. The pile of two clean towels overhung by harsh soap and shampoo – to avoid the risk of swallowing or too aggressive eye attacks – and the washcloth, were still carefully placed on the edge of the sink. So why a bathtub?

As if you were reading his mind, you turned around in a fluid movement. You took the time to appreciate Barnes' expressive gaze – it was so rare – before answering his questions.

"I assumed it must have been years since you had a real bath, you tried to avoid the Hydra subject, so I thought it could be a good idea?”

A good number of emotions passed through the blue of his eyes, only accentuating your apprehension about his reaction. No one had been even friendly to him for a long time, which meant that he was going to take a while before properly reacting. But as you had imagined, his gaze scanned the bathtub behind you at breakneck speed in search of a trap. I'm not like them, you thought with a pang of heart.

"I know what you must be telling yourself, but there is no trap Bucky,” his name resonated more than you would have imagined, “it's going to be long but believe me I'm not trying to kill you or hurt you"

A heavy doubt seemed to weigh, and you could only understand. This kind of sentence, he must have heard far too many before ending up electrocuted or worse. To help his process, you moved away and let him fully observe the place. His eyes locked on the shower head longer than expected, and once again, you felt nauseous as you imagined the traumas that must be replaying in his head. In that moment, you thought back to the first time you had led him into a bathroom. He had refused to get into the shower, his jaw clenched to the point that his teeth must have hurt, he had stared at you with a cocktail of indecipherable emotions in his eyes. You had ended up remembering the treatment reserved for Jews in the showers during the Second World War, and you had immediately apologized. Sorry, I should have thought of that, you had said guiltily, if you want you can just wash yourself with the washcloth and the faucet water, no need for the shower head today if you don't trust it. And the situation seemed to be happening again tonight, he was afraid that you would want to get rid of him during his shower, or bath in this case. Unfortunately, techniques have evolved since 39-45, especially since he was in the HQ of the greatest engineer in the United States, which meant that you could have found many methods to kill him while he was washing.

But you had to find a way to reassure him, because you had no intention of executing him quietly, and you wanted to be sincerely nice.

"Maybe if it reassures you I can-,” you hesitated before telling yourself that it was for a good cause, “I can stay with you? There's a curtain anyway"

Faced with his expression that swayed from surprise to doubt, you felt obliged to justify.

"If there's gas or an explosion, I'll die with you, which wouldn't be very appreciated by the team”, you paused slightly to gauge his reaction, “and if there's anything else threatening you can kill me yourself since I'll be right next to you”. You then brandish the door’s key between your two fingers, “on top of that I lock us in and leave the key on the edge of the bathtub, so I don't run away and lock you behind me"

You had the strong impression that in another time, Barnes would have smiled, maybe even laughed. Then, to your surprise, you saw a semblance of amusement in his eyes. An almost invisible veil that lasted only a second, just long enough for a distant version of him to take over the Winter Soldier. You couldn't help your smile, waiting despite everything for a more concrete reaction before reacting in return.

Bucky tried to get a dominant emotion out of the hubbub that was playing in his mind. You were definitely different, and he was beginning to understand why you had your place in the middle of a band of superhumans. And even if someone who spoke like you had the perfect profile to manipulate people at a high level, he risked taking his chance.

"Can I have twenty seconds alone to undress"

The shiver that electrocuted your entire body surely did not go unnoticed. His voice, his tone, gave a more directive than questioning turn to his question, and you only nodded slightly. In turn, you became as silent as him, too disturbed by the outburst of reactions on his part in such a short time. You left the bathroom, pushed the door behind you without closing it, because despite your shock, your unconscious valued your safety.

While you waited for some signal authorizing you to enter the room, you wandered on new thoughts. Barnes had not spoken to anyone from what you had been told. The cameras had recorded that during the fight to neutralize him he had spoken, a few Hydra men were with him so you had assumed that he was giving them orders in Russian. Natasha had been too busy trying not to die to pay attention to what he had said, but in hindsight, you wanted to know what had come out of his mouth that day. Tony liked to say that Russian was one of the least welcoming languages ​​in the world, but strangely hearing it from Bucky made you want to. Maybe it was his growling voice, maybe because Russian had been his “native” language for years. Besides Russian, he spoke other languages ​​according to reports, but then again he hadn’t shown off his skills to anyone but you. Besides, I’m pretty much the only one he’s seen since he arrived, you thought. But he had still had the opportunity when Bruce had come with you to visit him to check a wiring on the dashboard. He could have done it from his cell too, since it was completely transparent and he could see the hallway where many people passed, he could have talked. But he hadn’t, and without knowing why you had the feeling that he only wanted to talk to you.

The sound of water almost made you jump. You muttered a curse – hoping Bucky hadn’t heard – before slowly turning towards the door.

“Can I?” You rather ask to avoid a drama.

By the time he answered, you let your mind wander again. What if he was just naked in the middle of the room? Hydra had conditioned him to lose all sense of ownership, to make even his body no longer belong to him, which he meant was that nudity was no longer taboo and that on the contrary – given to the horrors these people had done – they could very well have forced him to stay naked to humiliate him further.

"Yes," his voice echoed vaguely.

Preparing yourself for the worst, you took a deep breath and kept your eyes high to avoid any eye contact in the wrong place. But as you opened the door you were relieved to see the curtain halfway drawn and Bucky already in the water. A feeling, which at the time you compared to a parent proud of their child, warmed your heart. It may not have been much in the eyes of the world, but you imagined the man's feelings when he plunged a body that had become almost unknown into warm water prepared for him, and him alone. Comfort, surprise, relief. A lot must have been going on in the Winter Soldier's head.

You closed the door behind you, locking the exit as planned. But as you moved closer to place the key next to him, a second wave of heat passed through your body as you realized something. He had only drawn the curtain halfway, thus hiding the lower part of his body but leaving you all the pleasure of seeing from his torso. Once again, in other measures you would not have found the situation moving, but rather comical. Except that this is the Winter Soldier, and all his communication was done without voice. He had left his arms and face visible so that you too could see that he wasn't a threat. In the same way that you had found a solution to his anxiety, he was taking a step towards you, showing you that you had no reason to fear him at the moment.

"Thank you," you murmured.

As if you were afraid of breaking the moment, you settled down without a sound. There was no chair here, but the floor suited you. You crossed your legs while resting your back against the small extension of the wall attached to the bathtub. This way, you stayed close enough to him while respecting a necessary distance to avoid seeing the rest of his naked body.

You forgot to check the time, no longer counting the minutes of observation that the man in front of you gave you before asking questions.

Bucky stayed in the water for a whole hour before it started to cool down. You spent all your time detailing his relaxed face, his eyes closed as if he was going to fall asleep from one second to the next. Then when he opened his eyelids again, he looked at you in turn for a few seconds, before asking you if he could get out of the bath. In his sentence, reality hit you again.

You had a mad desire to tell him that he was free, that he no longer had to take orders. You wanted to show him the world, to make him taste vanilla ice cream, to make him smell incense in churches, the greasy of triple burgers. You had the need to see him buy with his own money, help him get up from his first falls. When he looked at you with his big blue eyes, waiting for your permission to get out of a bath, you wanted to ask him for forgiveness, in the name of humanity. To promise him that no one would come and hit him, to promise this little boy that nothing would happen to him, that he could live a peaceful and happy life with his friends and family. But looking at the raw skin on his left shoulder, looking at the weapon that was implanted in his body, you felt your stomach turn. No one had been there to protect this child from Brooklyn, none of the people who had done this to him had even felt sorry for this man. And today he was sleeping in a cell capable of resisting the strength of the Hulk.

"You can get out of the bath," your voice broke.

He obeyed, rolling the superhuman muscles of his body to straighten up. You barely moved, being too far away in your thoughts to even think of looking away from him. A new blow was dealt to your heart as you realized that yes, he no longer had any notion of possession over his body. Two drops of water fell against your calf as he grabbed the largest towel and wiped his skin without emotion. The rough sound of the fabric made you shiver, and then you slowly stood up. He was taller than you, but neither that nor his robotic arm stopped you from grabbing his wet towel. His body failed to react when you passed the white fabric against his arm, his face was frozen in an expression of total incomprehension, faced with the softness with which the towel came into contact with his skin.

You finished your task, as if he were just a tiny puppy to wipe. Then, you took three steps back and fixed your eyes on his. You handed him some clean clothes, before taking the key back and heading towards the door.

“I really need some hot chocolate,” your voice still broken with tears declared, “and I’d love to share it with you, Bucky.”

Your slightly trembling hand wiped the moisture from your cheeks, then gradually turned back to the soldier after unlocking the exit. He had already dressed, the black jogging bottoms falling low on his hips. Bucky examined your face, and his eyebrows met in a half-confused, half-sad expression. He got close enough to you for you to feel the warmth he gave off.

“No cinnamon,” he said, “I don’t think I like it.”

You let out a nervous chuckle, telling yourself that only you could find yourself in these situations.

“No cinnamon.”

There was a first time for everything, and when you saw – later that night – whipped cream on the Winter Soldier’s lips, you thought that after all, the child could not be saved but that you could bring the man back to life.

pictures : Pinterest

dividers : @/strangergraphics, @/pommecita et @/thecutestgrotto

[zvaigzdelasas]

[BBC is UK State Media]

On Wednesday night, Israel bombed several military targets in Syria, including two airports – Hama military airport and the T4 base near Homs.

Syria's foreign ministry said the bombardment virtually destroyed the Hama base. [...]

Shortly afterwards, Israel's foreign minister accused Turkey of playing a "negative role" in Syria, and Israel's defence minister warned Syria's interim president, Ahmed al-Sharaa, that he would "pay a very heavy price" if he allowed "hostile forces" to enter his country.

Ankara is currently negotiating a joint defence pact with Sharaa's new government, and there have been widespread reports that Turkey is moving to station aircraft and air defence systems at Syria's T4 and Aleppo airbases.[...]

After the air strikes on Wednesday, Turkey's foreign ministry accused Israel of destabilising the region by "both causing chaos and feeding terrorism" and said it was now the greatest threat to the security of the region.

But foreign minister Hakan Fidan told Reuters news agency that his country was not seeking confrontation with Israel, and that Syria could set its own policies with its southern neighbour.[...]

Charles Lister, head of the Syria Programme at the US-based Middle East Institute, which studies the region, has counted more than 70 ground incursions into south-west Syria since February, describing this as "an extraordinarily dangerous moment – and an unnecessary one".

Since the fall of Assad four months ago, he says, not one attack has targeted Israel from Syria, the country's security forces have intercepted "at least 18 weapons shipments destined for Hezbollah in Lebanon, and dismantled at least eight formerly Iranian-linked rocket launch sites".

Many Syrians are disappointed by Israel's response to their new government. They watched for years as Israel targeted the Assad regime, and believed that Assad's fall would bring the chance for a less confrontational relationship with Israel.

Some say that view is now changing.

"We used to believe that the Israeli army was only targeting Assad's regime forces," said Ismail, a restaurant owner in the west of the country. "But its continued, incomprehensible bombings are sadly making us think that Israel is an enemy of the Syrian people."[...]

At least 1,000 Alawite civilians or disarmed fighters were massacred by pro-government forces, after government units were ambushed in a co-ordinated attack led by remnants of Syria's former armed forces.

4 Apr 25

[mimeo-tan]

i don't think the world is ready for that

i should be less evil

[defectivevillain]

this winding labyrinth, chapter 14

chapter fourteen: veneration

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader (reader's race & gender are ambiguous; no physical descriptors or pronouns are used)

summary:

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

this is chapter 14, act 2 of this broken design. if you haven't read act 1 or chapters 1-13, this won't make too much sense.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

“What?” you hear yourself exclaim. 

Jack Crawford is looking up to the ceiling, as if waiting for the sky to swallow him whole and free him from his discomfort. He takes a deep breath. “I know.” He sighs, staring at you from across his needlessly large wooden desk. “Frankly, it’s ridiculous. It’s completely inappropriate—not to mention, unspeakably dangerous.”

It takes you a moment to get yourself to speak. “Hannibal wants to make a meal for me,” you then repeat, as if saying it aloud will somehow help you comprehend it. But the thought only sounds more absurd. “In his prison cell.” Uttering those words ushers in a whole new, unpleasant reality. 

“That’s what I gathered, yes,” Jack responds. He takes a slow breath, seeming to be moments away from getting to his feet and pacing about his office. You know your boss well enough to recognize the telltale signs of his restlessness: he’s fidgeting ever so slightly in his chair; and routinely fixing the arrangement of pens on his desk. There’s a furrow to his brows too. 

“How is he able to do that?” you frown. “Cook in his cell, I mean,” you clarify. When Jack first summoned you to his office, you assumed it would be for something related to the Red Dragon. And while Hannibal isn’t entirely disconnected from the whole affair, you know he is particularly adept at distracting you. This ‘dinner’ he’s offering is likely a trap. Will you spring it? 

“Lecter has been afforded several special privileges throughout his time at the institution,” Jack eventually answers, looking displeased and frustrated by the idea. You can’t help but agree. Alongside his undeniably incomprehensible psyche, you suspect Hannibal’s status as a rich, white cisgender male grants him luxuries that he does not deserve, while many falsely imprisoned individuals across the country fight for scraps. It’s discomfiting. Jack seems to think the same, and he gives you a slight nod before continuing to speak. “My best guess is that Chilton hoped to gain some sort of insight on him, in exchange for treating him nicely. Whoever took over as the head administrator hasn’t removed any of his cell’s many accessories.” And ‘accessories’ is putting it lightly. If he has the necessary equipment to cook … You sigh. And you thought those giant bookcases at the back of his cell were extravagant. 

“As for why he wants to make a meal for you…” Jack continues, looking particularly troubled. “I haven’t the faintest idea.” 

“Really?” You blink. It’s no exaggeration to say Jack knows virtually everything—there’s a reason why he’s the head of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. Next to you, he knows Hannibal better than anyone. 

Jack takes a long breath, before getting to his feet and inexplicably stepping closer to you. He almost seems to hesitate before placing a hand on your shoulder, gripping it reassuringly. There’s a sympathetic expression on his face for a fraction of a moment, until it’s smoothed over by his characteristic professionalism. “I can’t pretend to understand why Hannibal is so fascinated with you,” Jack confesses, his jaw tightening momentarily. His hand falls back to his side. “But I have to admit, it disturbs me.” 

“I’m surprised you even told me he was asking for me,” you admit, squinting at him. Jack has hidden that kind of thing from you before, in an attempt to preserve your wellbeing. You had appreciated the gesture, but it ended up being futile. Hannibal is a very demanding presence, regardless of how much you may wish to pretend otherwise. 

Jack doesn’t bother hiding his discomfort. That unapologetic honesty is just one of the many qualities you admire in your boss. He knows when dishonesty is futile. He doesn’t beat around the bush or sugarcoat facts, when things are down to the wire. Jack knows lives are on the line and he never fails to keep you informed when applicable. 

“He offered something in exchange,” Jack reveals, still looking a bit uncomfortable. “He claims he has information on the Red Dragon.” You’re both quiet, because you understand the implications of that statement. If there’s even a slight chance he has a clue on the Red Dragon, this meal may be worth pursuing. That’s what you think, at least. And your thoughts must show on your face, because Jack shakes his head.

“There’s no guarantee he will have anything of consequence,” he reminds you. “It’s too risky.”

“I can do this,” you assert confidently. Maybe that confidence is misplaced, but there’s no time for you to waver in your decisions. You’ve let the Dragon roam free for far too long; and now, it’s time to clip his wings. Hannibal may not have the exact answers you’re looking for, but you know he’ll have something. And for now, that’s enough. 

“I know you can,” Jack says with a sigh. “I trust you; I don’t trust him.”

You appreciate that distinction. “I’ll be fine,” you reassure him. You can do this. 

“You’re my best agent,” Jack says fiercely. A warm feeling briefly blossoms in your chest at the high praise. “I’m not losing you to a dinner party with a cannibal.” That remark is a warning, rather than an argument. He’s allowing you to go through with this because he trusts you. 

Indeed, when Jack continues speaking, it’s to caution you. “Don’t get confident,” Jack says. “Hannibal has shown unfathomable patience through the years. There’s no telling what he has planned.” Unfathomable patience is an apt description, you think.  

You nod gravely. “I understand,” you confirm. 

“Keep some distance between the two of you at all times,” Jack instructs you. “He will try to poke and prod at you. Do not let him.” You search your boss’s face before nodding. You’re dismissed moments later, with instructions to visit Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane later that evening for dinner with Hannibal. 

The day passes in the blink of an eye, as the sun retreats behind the horizon and the stars begin to peek out of the night sky. You’re nearly lost in your thoughts as you drive to Baltimore, your eyes locked on the road but your mind… elsewhere. These past few months have been a complete whirlwind. And, unfortunately, the Dragon is far from the only killer who poses a threat to the public. Juggling your responsibilities has been increasingly difficult recently, when you find yourself moving from crime scene to crime scene with very few breaks. If this dinner were with anyone else, you’d consider it a break—an opportunity to breathe. But since you’ll be in Hannibal’s company, you’re more inclined to think of it as another assignment.

It’s a bit hard to convince yourself to step inside the building—and even harder to move through the hall, passing inmate after inmate. Hannibal’s cell remains at the very end of the hall, which is a minor inconvenience you remember each time you visit. Then again, if you were looking for convenience, you wouldn’t be at BSHCI. 

After successfully passing through the security door, you let it click shut behind you. It doesn’t take long for Hannibal to notice your presence—since his cell is the only occupied one in the nearby area. The sound of your footsteps likely informs him of your arrival. 

“Welcome,” Hannibal remarks, his gaze fixated on the book he’s reading. You’re mildly curious about what he’s reading, but his hands are strategically positioned to hide the cover and title. 

“Hello,” you respond. Your remark tears Hannibal’s attention away, and you watch as several emotions flit across his face when he looks at you: rage, revulsion, remorse. Despite your efforts, you suspect your voice still sounds strained from the Dragon’s brutality. Not to mention, there are bruises and scratches scattered across your skin—poking out of your sleeves despite your best efforts at concealment. 

“You are dressed somewhat casually,” Hannibal observes. 

You look down at your sweater and jeans. “I didn’t want to make things too awkward,” you settle for saying. In reality, you dressed comfortably to maintain the appearance of being friendly and sociable. You’re sure Hannibal can recognize that—hell, that’s why he’s always dressed so nicely. He likes intimidating people. “Considering your state of dress.” You glance pointedly at his prison jumpsuit.

Hannibal only smiles. (He’s been doing that rather frequently around you, hasn’t he?) “Courteous of you,” he notes. Then he takes a sharp breath and pauses. “You smell of the fragrance Dr. Bloom wears. Are you seeing her again?”

“No,” you respond. Like that’s any of your business, you finish internally. Your thoughts must show on your face, because Hannibal raises his eyebrows. You try to steel your sudden onslaught of nerves. “We’re just friends. And she's dating someone.” You recall your conversation with Alana a few hours ago—the excitement glimmering in her eyes as she revealed she’s dating someone. She pulled you into a hug and disclosed that she’d like the two of you to meet sometime. You agreed easily, happy that she found someone. 

“I see,” Hannibal hums, although the suspicion in his eyes indicates that he clearly doesn’t see. You inhale slowly, pretending not to notice that the effort is stuttered and more laborious than usual. “Good for her.”

That particular topic of conversation is quickly abandoned, as the prison guard sidles up to the door of Hannibal’s cell and opens it for you. You step in, despite your best judgment. There’s a chance you won’t leave this glass cage alive. You swallow hard. 

Hannibal isn’t even handcuffed. This was such a bad idea. Such a horrible, terrible idea. Why are you here again? There’s no guarantee Hannibal will be forthcoming—really, he never is. And even if he does have information, he won’t just give it to you—it will be buried between the words he doesn’t utter. 

He’s approaching you now. Every nerve in your body is screaming, telling you to run and never back. But you’re frozen as Hannibal approaches, taking leisurely step after leisurely step. He’s enjoying this, damn it. “You look tense,” Hannibal remarks. 

You grit your teeth. “I’m not tense,” you respond instinctively. 

You both know it’s a lie. “Very well,” Hannibal says, clearly indulging you. He clasps his hands behind his back. The gesture does nothing to diminish your nerves. “Are you hungry, then?”

You clear your throat. “I could eat,” you admit, your voice a little raspy. It feels dangerous to deny him. Besides, you lost the illusion of choice a long time ago. You need to play along if you want to get what you came here for. You find an impressive collection of ingredients strewn across the small table he’s been given to prepare food. Fortunately, it looks like all of the prep work that requires slicing, dicing—anything with a knife, you think—has been done already. 

The smile on Hannibal’s face widens at your easygoing response. “Very well,” he hums. He guides you through an explanation of what he’s making, although many of the technical terms elude you. The main takeaway you get from his description is that the meal is easy to prepare, allowing time for Hannibal to take his eyes off of it and engage you in conversation. A tactical choice, you suspect. 

For a while, it’s silent as he cooks on what appears to be a portable stove. “What was the point of this meal?” you decide to ask as he’s cooking. You doubt Hannibal will be so generous as to give you the answer right away, but it doesn’t hurt to ask. 

“I haven’t had the pleasure of your company in quite some time,” he admits. 

“That’s not it,” you object quickly. 

Hannibal looks up from his food preparation at that, a smile dancing on his lips. “You seem to have the answer to that question already.” 

Jack did tell you that Hannibal wanted to apologize. You don’t believe that, though. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard or seen you apologize before,” you say after a few moments of deliberation. Your honesty, however inappropriate, always seems to go over better than lying to him. “Forgive me for being suspicious.”

“Why is that so suspicious?” he hums, turning to place his ingredients in the pot. Honestly, you don’t have the faintest idea what you’re going to be eating—despite Hannibal’s elaborate description earlier. You had far more important things to focus on, like the number of everyday objects in the room he could use to end your life. (At least eight, you reckon.)

“You don’t see yourself as a person who makes mistakes,” you remember to reply. 

“Yet I did make a mistake,” Hannibal murmurs. You’re shocked to silence. Completely speechless. Stuck in place, watching his turned back and compelling him to turn around, if only to explain himself. Eventually, Hannibal does turn back around to face you. “I allowed you to get hurt, and for that, I am truly sorry.” The expression on his face is disgustingly sincere. 

Your fists clench at your sides. You suddenly feel so horribly angry. “You’re not my protector,” you practically hiss. “You’re not my keeper or my bodyguard.” And you can sure as hell protect yourself. Hannibal doesn’t allow you to do anything. You glare at him fiercely, hoping you can convey that sentiment without words. You’re tired of people trying to protect you. You’re not fragile or breakable, and you’re certainly not made of glass. 

“Who am I, to you?” Hannibal’s question breaks through your thoughts. He has since abandoned the food on the stove, and is now standing closer to you than you remember him being. 

…Who is Hannibal to you? Is there even a way to describe the fucked-up amalgamation of feelings he incites in you? The man is a friend one moment and an enemy the next. He is only as helpful as he wants to be. He only speaks when he wants to get a reaction from you. He spent years lying in wait, anticipating the moment you would approach him with a request for assistance. Who the hell is Hannibal Lecter? You still don’t think you have a good grasp on him. 

“An enigma,” you whisper.

In your mind’s eye, Hannibal’s teeth rip through his lips and his jaw unhinges, snapping over you in one clean bite and encasing you in darkness. In reality, Hannibal just smirks almost imperceptibly. He takes a step forward, and then another. He regards you for a second, before reaching a hand towards you. It takes every ounce of control you have not to flinch or shove him away. His hand hovers before your throat for what feels like an eternity, before it settles as a firm grasp on your shoulder. 

Your breaths sound particularly loud. Your heart is jackhammering against your chest. Hannibal must notice that you’re practically trembling, because his hand slides up, up, up to the side of your neck. Two fingers settle against your pulse point. “Your heart is racing, dear,” he says. 

“I don’t usually let killers get this close to me,” you answer. Jack’s warning rings through your ears: “Keep some distance between you. He will poke and prod at you; don’t let him.”  It’s so easy, in theory. In reality, when faced with Hannibal’s unwavering attention, you can’t help but freeze like prey. 

“Usually,” Hannibal hums. His hand rests dangerously close to your throat. You’re sure you’re shaking now, fighting off every instinct that tells you to run. 

“You are frightened,” he observes next, something like amusement in his voice. “Yet you do not push me away.” Hannibal’s dragging his thumb across your jaw and you want to scream. Your next breaths are labored and insufficient. Your chest burns. The air hums in uncomfortable silence. 

“I suppose your wariness is only rational,” Hannibal acquiesces, his thumb finding the scar he gave you all those years ago, the scar he reopened to provide you a new reckoning with each glance at a mirror. “But we do have a history.” He traces it up your face and you blink instinctively at how close he gets to your eye. 

“Should I know better?” you posit. Somehow his hand is on your throat as you swallow. “That history is very complex and tangled.” You can’t give him a reaction. He wants a reaction. You will not give him the fear he so desperately craves. 

It’s quiet for several minutes. He’s testing you. Eventually, you must pass his impromptu examination, because he breaks through the silence. “Correct as always,” Hannibal sighs, finally stepping away from you. The room feels warm now. “And a fitting segue into our meal.”

You move somewhat robotically to sit at the plastic table you’ve been provided; Hannibal follows your lead. The table looks as if it could break from the gentlest of touches. The thought amuses you, for some reason. And then the orderly enters, providing you both with silverware. You thank them as they give you proper silverware; and resist a laugh as they give Hannibal plastic utensils. You’ve never seen such dull cutlery before—the knife is duller than a butter knife. 

“Shall we?” Hannibal asks, as if he doesn’t appear to be eating at the kids’ table of a family gathering. You nod and take the seat across from him. The irony of the situation is only growing more amusing the more you take in the table settings: the plastic silverware and paper plate for Hannibal; the sharp utensils and ceramic plate your dish is served on. But the man is unperturbed, as he gives you both equal servings before settling back at his seat. 

“I propose a toast,” Hannibal then says with a hint of a smile. That quirk to his lips almost seems to twitch. You’re fighting off the urge to laugh, despite it all.  Hannibal is unaware. “To friends, old and new.” 

You go along with the toast and clink your water glass against his. Then you take another look at the plastic table and plastic cutlery… and you laugh. You don’t think you’ve laughed like this in several years, and you have to bend your head down to catch your breath.  

“I can’t say anyone has ever possessed the courage to laugh at me within such close quarters,” Hannibal states some time later, once you’ve mostly recovered. You deduce he must be feeling a bit impatient, but mostly unbothered. 

“Please,” you huff before you can stop yourself. He’s trying to threaten you, which just makes you laugh again. Then you take the knife you were provided, watching as it catches the light. “They gave me a sharp knife for a reason.” This entire situation is so ludicrous. 

“Would you kill me?” Hannibal questions, his eyes locked on the knife in your hand. His wariness—even if it is born out of pretense—satisfies you. 

You consider the question: would you kill Hannibal, if given the chance? Well, you have a chance right now, you suppose. You doubt he’d go down without a fight, but you think you could do it. Take him by surprise, sink the knife into his jugular. You can feel the blood splattering across your face, hear the shrill sound of your ears ringing. “Yes, I would kill you,” you state. Your voice sounds almost inhumanly calm. “Does that excite you? It would, wouldn’t it?” There’s a smirk growing on your face, despite your best efforts. 

“You’re enjoying this.” Hannibal analyzes. 

“Of course,” you respond, not bothering to lie. Hannibal seems taken aback by your honesty, because he raises a brow ever so slightly. “Even if it is an illusion, it still makes me feel secure. Although I’m sure you’ve beaten far worse odds before.” You tap the knife against the table once, twice. 

“There are other weapons in this room,” Hannibal says. 

“I suppose there are, yes,” you agree. You study the space for a long moment, cataloguing anything and everything you see that could be used against you. “The portable stove, the metal rods of the bed frame. You could even crumble up the paper from your beloved books and choke me to death.” You really need to stop talking, or you’ll give him ideas. 

“That would be poetic,” Hannibal says softly, something of a peaceful smile on his face. 

“Depending on the book,” you argue before you can stop yourself. His eyes find yours and you feel the words getting dragged out of you. “You don’t have much to choose from. Unless you think choking on DSM-5 is a particularly… symbolic end.” 

Hannibal hums in amusement, before turning his attention to his food. You do the same, easily cutting your food. You’re about to eat when you realize he’s still attempting to portion his meal. It’s abundantly clear his plastic knife isn’t nearly sharp enough to do the job. An annoyed sound escapes your lips and you reach out to slide his plate closer to you, cutting his food into bite-size pieces and returning it back to him. “You did that on purpose,” you remark, resisting the urge to roll your eyes. 

“Pardon?” he asks far too innocently.

“You could’ve just asked me for the knife,” you respond. Yes, Hannibal was waiting to see if you’d take pity on him. If you’d look at him, his weakness, his strategic vulnerability… and give him an out. And you fell for it, if only because the sight was so pathetic and off-putting. 

“Would you have given it to me?” Hannibal asks, despite clearly already knowing the answer. 

“Probably not,” you acquiesce. You may slip up at times, but you’re not that stupid. 

There’s a breath of laughter—Hannibal’s shoulders twitch ever so slightly. Feeling unreasonably proud of yourself, you begin to eat. Despite the tension that lingered in the air prior, the meal itself is a relatively ordinary affair. At least, as ordinary as a meal with a cannibal in a prison can be. You shake your head in disbelief. You always think you’ve seen everything in your job, and then something comes along to disprove the notion. (And then Hannibal himself comes along, and swiftly breaks through everything you thought you knew.)

Speaking of everything you thought you knew�� “I don’t suppose you have that information for me,” you say. Hannibal is silent. Truthfully, you expected that kind of reaction. Hannibal never likes doing things the easy way, however. You suspect getting him into a conversation will still yield some results, though. Sometimes he will only surrender information covertly, between the spaces of his words and the calm breaths that leave his lips. “Fine.” 

You begin to engage him in conversation, running through everything you’ve gathered so far. The Dragon has killed several white, middle-class nuclear families. He enacts his kills on the full moon of the month. He pays special attention to the matriarch of the family, seeing her as some sort of observer and audience to his misdeeds. Then, when the family’s breaths have fallen still, the Dragon heads to the bathroom mirror and shatters it. He digs his hands into the glass, welcoming the familiar stinging warmth of blood trickling down his skin. Then he makes his escape… and does not appear again until the full moon. It almost seems like some sort of folktale—a legend told to children to scare them. The killer’s routine has been maintained since his first murder. He is a man of routine and method. 

“The Jacobis were his first; they lived in Birmingham, Alabama,” you recite aloud. Talking your way through it can help sometimes. Plus, this way, you can analyze Hannibal’s reactions and attempt to draw conclusions from there. “Next was the Leeds family; Atlanta, Georgia. The Turners, in Omaha, Nebraska; the Russells in Des Moines, Iowa; and the Martins in St. Louis, Missouri.”

Hannibal is still watching. (Then again, he always is.) The accountability of his gaze somehow pushes the cogs in your mind to keep spinning. There’s something significant about the locations, you think. There’s something you’ve overlooked, something you’re missing. You frown before taking your phone  from your pocket. “Apologies for my lack of manners,” you say wryly, squinting down at the screen as you look at the locations on a map. They appear far too random, and that seamless spontaneity isn’t organic. 

You know that part of it comes down to the characteristics of the families. The killer almost seems to select them from a roster, choosing the ones with mothers with bleach-blonde hair and sparkling eyes. His sexual fascination never fails to disturb you, and it takes a moment of concerted effort to reorganize your thoughts. A roster of families. The Dragon must have access to something like that. And all of these families have those seemingly innocuous home videos- 

“The films,” you say aloud, the realization hitting you as quickly as a lightning strike. Hannibal’s certainly staring now. “Fuck, it was so obvious—” you practically growl in frustration, ignoring the growing urge to throw your glass against the wall. You instead tilt your head down to give yourself a break from Hannibal’s insistent eye contact, beginning to put the pieces together. Your hands almost shake as you zoom in on the St. Louis area, before typing in the word “film” and searching through the results. Gateway Film Laboratory is the first result; you click on the address and zoom in on it, finding it to be in the heart of St. Louis. It’s merely a twenty minute drive from the Leeds’ residence. 

Jack and you had inspected the home films, but you were far too focused on the content of the films themselves. You had done an initial sweep of the film laboratories located in Georgia and Alabama, but nothing came of it. You never would’ve considered St. Louis, until the most recent murder. Still… you feel foolish. It seems like such a simple solution, something you should’ve realized months ago. 

There’s no use dwelling on the past, though. Right now, you need to speak with Jack and work on finding information on the employees of Gateway Film Laboratory. There will be someone there who fits the description of the killer you’re looking for. 

You emerge from your illusory solitude to find Hannibal staring at you—with such intensity that you fear your skin might melt off. “I’m sorry to cut our conversation short, Dr. Lecter,” you remark, quickly getting up from the table. Your ears are ringing and your voice sounds as if you’re underwater. “Please excuse me.” You try to take a step back, but you’re met with an unexpected resistance. You attempt to turn, only for a force to yank you back. Hannibal is standing right in front of you, gripping your wrist in a manner that is both insistently forceful and infinitely gentle. It’s hard to breathe. You’re forced to face him. 

You hiss, trying to pull away from him. Hannibal eventually relinquishes his grip, but before you can attempt to retreat, his hands are tugging at your sweater collar and running along your skin. A shiver runs down your spine and you feel goosebumps collecting on your arms. There’s a disapproving expression on his face as he tilts your collar aside, revealing the remnants of the bite mark Dolarhyde left you. You had hidden them for a reason, you think, as he traces the marks with his fingers. The look on his face is nothing short of pure displeasure, but his movements are almost… reverent. It’s an unsettling juxtaposition. 

Air slams back into your chest and you shove his hand away, quickly turning and exiting the cell. In the blink of an eye, the guard is there to close the door behind you, rendering Hannibal imprisoned once more. He doesn’t seem to even notice, instead drinking in the sight of you. 

You take a step backwards, needing a moment before you can convince yourself to move. When you finally start to leave, Hannibal calls after you. “I forgive you,” he says. The remark almost makes you freeze, before your fear kicks in and you start to walk even faster. Hannibal’s voice still follows you down the hall. “Will you forgive me?”

You slam the security door behind you. Your breaths almost echo in your ears. You walk through the hall in a haze, as if you’re a mere specter. The taunts of the prisoners reflect off of you, falling on unwilling ears. You think one of the inmates throws something at you, but you don’t bother to acknowledge it. 

The second you pass through the doorway of the building and meet the open air once more, you’re dialing Jack’s phone number. He answers quickly. “Jack,” you say breathlessly, surveying your immediate surroundings to make sure there’s no one nearby. The effort seems a little unnecessary, since you’re in your car, but better safe than sorry. Your interaction with Hannibal just now—his hold on your wrist, the attentive gleam to his eyes—is leaving you feeling rather restless. You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to regain your composure. It feels hard to breathe.

“Agent,” he greets you, sensing the unspoken urgency with which you called on him. 

“The Red Dragon’s most recent victims lived in St. Louis, Missouri,” you say quickly, almost breathlessly. 

Jack is quiet for a moment. “Yes, why?”

“There’s a Gateway Laboratory location there,” you say. “It’s within about twenty minutes of the Martins’ residence. 

Jack’s still silent, so you continue. “We agreed there was no pattern between the locations of the families,” you elaborate. “And we were right. But they all had home videos, from Gateway Laboratories.” The two of you had cross-referenced a list of all the company’s employees, but since the organization is a national chain, you had too many names to work with. “St. Louis is in the middle of the other families—between Omaha, Atlanta, Birmingham, and Des Moines. Check if there was someone who matched the criteria at the St. Louis location.”

There’s a faint clicking sound as Jack pulls up the report. You hear his breath stutter. “Francis Dolarhyde. Age 42. Military background. Right-handed, type AB blood. It’s him… We’ll reconvene when you get back.” There’s a quiet tone as he hangs up. You stare at your phone, your stomach churning. You’re finally getting closer to the Red Dragon. So… why do you still feel so uneasy? It must be your conversation with Hannibal—it’s unnerving you, loath you are to admit it. 

You take a deep breath, leaning your head against the steering wheel of your car for a moment before finally starting the car and pulling out of the parking lot. Through the hum of music spilling from the radio and the ever-present sounds of passing cars, you can still hear, feel, Hannibal’s voice on your skin. 

He forgives you. But for what? And Hannibal wants you to forgive him. What forgiveness is he seeking, though? Does he want absolution from what he has already done, or what he is about to do? 

Unbeknownst to you, Hannibal is also digesting your conversation behind the glass walls of his enclosure—picking your words apart, attempting to find traces of sentiment in them. He is growing restless and bored. He is a patient man, but there is only so much patience a person in his situation can have. Hannibal has entertained this charade for long enough, hasn’t he? 

He turns his back on the cameras, deftly concealing himself in the blind spot. In his hand, he twists an entirely ordinary ballpoint pen. The utensil—deftly taken from the pocket of your jeans moments ago—glints when it catches the fluorescent lighting above. From the skylight, he can see the stars winking at him. Hannibal pushes the pen under the fitted sheet of his mattress and smiles. 

Finally, his time grows near.

endnotes: Maybe it’s just me but I would for real not be able to stop myself from laughing at the plastic silverware situation. I kept cackling to myself as I was writing it. There’s something about the whole picture of Hannibal Lecter just sitting at a rickety table, attempting to eat an expensive meal with plastic utensils that keep breaking. Funny as fuck. Like, just thinking about him being entirely sincere and grabbing a piece with his fork, only for a prong to break off. I would not be able to keep it together.

I felt as if I had to acknowledge Hannibal’s privilege as a prisoner, because it’s just absolutely wild. The carceral state is extremely discriminatory, and I highly suspect that, if Hannibal were a different ethnicity/race/gender, he would not have received the same amenities he was afforded. I know this is a work of fiction, but still. It’s just far too close to real life for me to ignore.

I also like to think that Hannibal has the swiftness of a common pickpocket. That, combined with just the danger of being in a room alone with him, is enough for the reader not to notice their pen being swiped. Besides, it’s a pen. Seems harmless, right? ;) Hannibal is really Mac Gyver’ing this shit. Sigh.

Notice how you didn’t thank Hannibal for the meal, either? He absolutely loathes discourtesy, but he tolerates that behavior when it’s coming from you. Mwhahahahha… Ahahahaha...

In the beginning stages of this draft, I took inspiration from Mindhunter. I only watched a few eps of this show... but still! Also, this YouTube video of Holden & Ed gives me Hannibal & Reader vibes.

Only a few chapters left. We're down to the final stretch...! 

Also, not sure if I ever said this... but funnily enough, since first writing this series, my ethnicity results went up 17% for the Baltics (aka Lithuania, aka Hannibal. lmao.) Okiii bye!

next chapter

©2025, @defectivevillain | @defectivehero, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

thanks for reading! <3

check out my other works, sorted by fandom.

friendly reminder that i don't give permission for my writing to be shared to other sites, stolen, copied, translated, or used in any way. thanks!

hannibal taglist: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer @gayschlatt69 @flow33didontsmoke @mrgatotortuga @house-of-1000-corpses-fan @faggotboulevard

[communistkenobi]

something I’ve been thinking about is like, the internet is this magical system of technologies, never before seen in human history, and one of its capabilities is to answer virtually any question you ask of it. Which is not even remotely a novel observation obviously lol. But I’m thinking about this in the context of a point that Adorno & Horkheimer made (in The Culture Industry I think?) about the radio: that to expedience the radio, to live in a social context where there is this vast incomprehensible system of technological infrastructure that you do not understand or control, and which allows you, a mere peasant, to listen to news broadcasts, music, and advertisements, is effectively like listening to the voice of god. Like the average person’s relationship to modern telecommunications is so mystifying, incomprehensible, and abstract that we experience technologies like the radio as an all-powerful, indestructible authority, and this (obviously) shapes our relationship to the information that is shared through it. People make jokes on here about how transmission towers are angels, but like tbh that is essentially how we experience them - vast, incomprehensible, highly dangerous objects whose impact on our lives are at once all-consuming and unknowable. We do not just turn on the radio and listen to the news, we tune into what the voice of god has to say today - right now he’s selling toilet cleanser!

and all that to say, I always find something a bit incomplete about discussions about wilful ignorance online - that we live in an age of mass information and yet people still seem as ignorant as feudal peasants, or whatever. Nobody googles things, nobody tries to branch out and experience new kinds of art, nobody educates themselves on important topics they don’t understand. and like this frustration is very real and well taken, I feel it frequently, but what I’m grappling with is whether this is the correct framing - that maybe “why don’t people just google things” is the wrong question to ask, because I tend to find the explanations offered unsatisfactory. Like specifically I’m thinking of discussions on here that are about like, “anti-intellectualism”, kids these days are so ignorant even though they grew up with the internet, reading comprehension is piss poor, and so on. Recently I’ve seen a lot of weirdly moral-panicky posts about children not knowing how to type on computers because back in my day we were forced to learn how to touch-type by age 8 even though we couldn’t look up any tutorials on YouTube to help us, etc etc. And like I just do not buy that people are individually choosing to be ignorant, that people are “getting dumber,” and that this state of getting dumber is inversely related to the amount of information we have access to (which makes “getting dumber” even more dumb). An unstated assumption that goes into a lot of these “anti-intellectualism” discussions is that “information” is this universal object that has a standardised enlightening effect on the people who interact with it - that the only reason to have an ignorant, sheltered, or ill-formed opinion on something is because you have individually chosen not to Look At Information that will cure you of your ignorance. And so going back to the god radio thing, having regular access to the google search bar is not just having access to an encyclopaedia or dictionary - it is like having a direct line of communication to god, this authority that can answer any question you ask of it. But it’s not just one answer, it’s many answers, more answers than you could ever possibly read through. Google reports the number of hits it returns for whatever you type in - you will regularly get millions of answers to your question. And these answers are embedded with advertisements, just as radio news broadcasts are. Like if god is selling you toilet cleanser while telling you the number for a suicide hotline or news about what’s happening in the world, how do you psychologically deal with that, how is your relationship to capital-I Information shaped by this relationship?

The corollary to “we live in an age of mass information” is “we live in an age of mass misinformation,” but they both show up as answers on google (again, not a novel observation). but in the face of that how do you not simply stop asking questions? & of course this decision to stop asking questions is given form and substance by social circumstance, it reinforces systemic privileges and violences, and so this decision is not one free from consequence, and in many cases it is not an innocent decision. a white person deciding not to read the news because it’s too hard to figure out what is happening/too frightening/etc has the consequence of reinforcing the white supremacist outlook that is foundational to the social context of white people because they’re not reading anything that challenges that outlook. ignorance has many social contexts and many of them are violent. etc. like the consequence of “why does nobody google anything” is just a continuation of the status quo, just with this supposedly glaring and easy fix to it (simply google it). but that just leads us back to a discourse of individual choice, of people individually choosing not to “google shit.” it is a deeply individual fix to a systematic social problem. and so maybe the question is not, why doesn’t anyone google shit, but rather, why is the primary delivery system of knowledge a god that sells you toilet cleanser 

[seat-safety-switch]

If I ever get back to my own timeline, the first thing I'm going to do is bury my Doc Martens so far up the ass of The Professor that he's going to wish he had never heard of dimensional travel. You certainly can't blame me for going along with it. It all sounded so good: with an infinity of other universes, chances are one of them is gonna have a low-miles 1978 Plymouth Volare that I can bring back home.

That universe, if it does exist, isn't this one. I knew as soon as I stepped out of the warp that things were different. The air hung thick with the smell of two-stroke oil. Screaming wasp-like engines ran at incomprehensibly high revs. Japanese kanji were stapled on the side of every building, making it nearly impossible for my illiterate ass to navigate the downtown well enough to secure a taxi cab. I stumbled through the rain-slick streets in search of a store with enough triple-A batteries to get home.

Something that looked like a hardware store approached from the gloom. The horrific shrieking din grew from all sides. Did they know I was coming? Were they hunting me? That's when I saw it. A family hatchback, containing a family. Front-wheel-drive. Nothing special. In the front, though, a shrieking dorito, its induction scoop jutting through an entirely absent hood. In this universe, rotary engines had won the war. Something in the laws of physics didn't go the same way here as it did in our realm. Pistons were virtually extinct, hunted to the ends of the Earth.

I could not bear to see if I could find my beloved Mopars in this world. If any had survived at all, they would be incomprehensible. And how bad would a Chrysler-helmed Wankel engine be? How horrifying would Saab have become, in this triangle-shaped hell? Most of all, I feared falling in love with it, refusing to continue the sliding. The good news is that these things had such low compression after a couple weeks of use, that 48-volt marine batteries were cheap as hell. Even if I did have to pay for them with chunks of my own hair.

[sevenmoreminutes]

some of the best words off the top of my head: proto, hysterical, psychosexual, nothingburger, unserious, invoke, absolute, cinema, unintelligible, insufferable, undeniably, incomprehensible, pastiche, immense, virtually, schlock

[mysticstronomy]

HOW TO DESTROY A BLACK HOLE??

Blog#460

Saturday, December 7th, 2024

Welcome back,

Black holes want to absorb all matter and energy in the Universe. It’s just a matter of time. So what can we do to fight back? What superweapons have been devised to destroy black holes?

Black holes are the natural enemies of all spacefaring races. With their bottomless capacity to consume all light and matter, it’s just a few septillion years before all things in the Universe have found their way into the cavernous maw of a black hole, crushed into the infinitely dense singularity. If Star Trek has taught us anything, it’s that it’s mankind’s imperative to survive against all odds.

So will we take this lying down?

Heck no!

Will we strike first and destroy the black holes before they destroy us?

Heck yes!

But how? How could you kill a black hole?

This��� gets a little tricky.

For a black hole, any matter entering the event horizon is added to the mass. Shoot bullets at a black hole, and you just make a slightly more massive, slightly more dangerous black hole. Detonate a nuclear bomb inside the event horizon, and you only make the black hole more massive.

Fire your forward phasers at the black hole, and that’ll still make it even more massive. Swap those bullets in for lasers and black holes don’t care. Within the event horizon, energy and matter are one, and those very same black holes can convert that energy into mass. So all your projectiles and energy weapons inevitably just make it more dangerous.

What if we crashed a star into it? Would that fill it up, or burn it out? Nope. It would just gobble that star up, and go on with its business. If we smashed another black hole into it? Would that tear it apart? The cause is also the cure? Not even maybe. As soon as black holes get within each other’s event horizons, they’ll just merge into a more massive, and even nastier, meaner black hole.

Number 1, it’s time to bring out the big guns. Reverse the particle flow, flood the dilithium chamber with exotic particles and route it through the main deflector dish, and construct your own black hole out of antimatter. Then kamikaze this new antimatter black hole right into a the black hole you want to destroy. Would that do it? Would that solve our problem?

As you probably know, when you crash matter into antimatter, you get an explosion of pure energy. It’s the most perfect energy weapon we can envision. Unsurprisingly, this brings its own set of complications. It’s not entirely clear you’ve still have antimatter in your antimatter black hole. It’s possibly been converted into a regular flavour black hole.

Still, if you *could* crash an antimatter and regular matter black hole together, you would get an incomprehensible explosion. Converting that entire dense and gigantic mass into pure energy, as calculated by Einstein. As soon as you did, all that energy would be immediately converted… into more black hole.

Nothing, not even light itself can escape a black hole. That includes all your magnificent explosion energy from your antimatter impact. You wouldn’t even see it happen. You’d just end up with a black hole with twice the mass. And that might be just what it wants.

As we learned in a previous episode, we can extract angular momentum from a black hole. By dropping material into the event horizon, we can remove energy and slow its rotation. We can even bring it to a stop. So we can slow down its spin, but that won’t make it go away.

So, is that it, are we out of options? Good news, we have one last strategy, and it’s so crazy it just might work. According to Stephen Hawking, black holes can actually evaporate over enormous periods of time.

Virtual pairs of particles are constantly popping into existence all around us. Then they recombine in a flash and disappear from the Universe. When one of these particle pairs appears right on the edge of a black hole, one particle falls into the black hole, and the other is free to fly off into space. And here’s the amazing thing. This might actually reduce the overall mass of the black hole.

So, over an incomprehensible period of time, even the most supermassive of the black holes will have evaporated away into a harmless soup of particles. It turns out, in order to defeat the black hole menace, all we need to do is ignore them, and they’ll go away all on their own.

Originally published on https://www.universetoday.com

COMING UP!!

(Wednesday, December 11th, 2024)

"HOW ARE BLACK HOLES CREATED, AND HOW DO THEY GROW??"

[iidsch]

also more codelyokoposting but I really really dig XANA as a villain. It's not a person with a complex background that led them down the path of evil, it's not a morally grey character you sympathize with but condemn. It's a powerful AI capable of controlling almost anything in the real world. It doesn't have a face or a body, we only know it for its symbol and for the monsters it controls in the virtual world. It's willing not just to kill people through various methods (poisoning, drowning, car crash, fucking space lasers too?) but also Earth as a whole (it tried to blow up a NUCLEAR PLANT and crash two trains with toxic chemicals in them). And we don't even know why it does this, at least not for now. It may not even have a particular reason, just some sort of virus or malware in the form of an AI that seeks nothing but destruction without any goals in mind. This "pure evil" characteristic doesn't come off as childish, like in some children cartoons, it's just kind of scary to think that such an incomprehensible and destructive force exists, almost feels like a natural disaster