I Go To Bars And Coffee Shops And Breweries And Libraries And Thrift Stores All The Time By Myself And

Stay with me: Will and Hannibal have been fighting for months about their criteria for hunting in a post-fall world, never able to agree on what murders are justified, who deserves or doesn’t deserve to be punished… and then the cybertruck is introduced

Cabaret!AU?

Supernova Love | spacedogs oneshot

There were four minutes and thirty-seven seconds left when a body slid next to his, just an arm’s length away. Adam focused on the ratty shoelaces of his midnight blue converses, not wanting to risk conversation. He was so close to this night being over. In three minutes he could just go home and lay down in bed, star projector on the ceiling, and a documentary playing softly in the background.

“Hey!” They yelled over the music.

Adam’s heart seized with anxiety, his chest clenching painfully, and he swallowed thickly. Maybe he could just pretend that he couldn’t hear them.

“Hey!” They yelled again, louder.

Reluctantly, Adam turned, his head heavy on his his neck, and looked. It was the guy from earlier with the silly shirt. He was taller up close and more intimidating than the little doggies let on. He had nice eyes though, sharp cheekbones, and a soft jawline. And he was sucking on another cigarette. The tip of it glowed in the dim room and a puff of smoke followed a moment later, the teen taking a moment to chew on the flavor.

“Hello…” Adam said. His nose wrinkled at the smell of cigarette smoke wafting his way. The guy smelled like he had already smoked a pack of them.

“You good?” He asked. “You’ve been here a while. You sick or some shit?”

Adam swallowed and replied, “No, I’m not. Just, uhm, overwhelmed.” He knew that he was half-shouting just so he could be heard over the music, but it sounded quiet to his own ears.

“Mm,” The guy acknowledged. His bony fingers plucked the cigarette from his lips and offered it to Adam.

Adam vehemently shook his head and the guy paused like he just realized something, then shrugged and took another drag.

Adam watched his cheeks sink in with the motion, strangely enraptured by the sight of it. The guy made eye contact with him for a second as he inhaled and Adam quickly looked away, it felt like a burn. When he exhaled, he turned the other way and Adam blinked in surprise.

”You gonna drink that?” He asked, gesturing to the drink in Adam’s hand.

”Uhm, no. I don’t drink,” Adam said timidly. He forgot he was even holding the cup.

”What?” The guy asked, leaning closer to hear him.

”Uh- I-I said I don’t drink!” Adam repeated louder. The smell of cigarettes become stronger and his head spun from it. The strangers face was startlingly close for a moment and he felt like he could barely breathe.

“What?!” They guy exclaimed, reeling back. “You don’t smoke or drink? The fuck’re you doing here then?” A few ashes fell off the tip of his cigarette.

Adam’s face felt hot, irrationally embarrassed about not participating in casual substance use. “I’m here for my friend!” He explained.

”Oh yeah? Where is he?”

She, Adam wanted to correct, but it felt pointless.

“Uhm I don’t know.”

”So, he just left you here?”

”I guess.”

The other teen’s upper lift lifted into a little snarl, something that Adam didn’t see a lot of people do. Then, he muttered something, but Adam was never good at reading lips.

”What?” Adam asked.

The guy waved it off, taking another drag from his cigarette. It was too short to keep sucking on, so he dropped it and snuffed it out under his leather boot, then picked it up and stuffed it in his pocket. Adam wondered how many were in there.

From his angle, he watched the other teen’s shaggy ashen-blonde hair flop from its gelled style and when he stood back up, a few strands had fallen over his forehead. It looked better this way, he thought, but the guy ran a hand through his hair to smooth it back. Adam could see the sweat on his neck glistening beneath the strobe lights.

“Wanna get out of here?” He asked.

With you? Adam wanted to say, but he nodded regardless because he really, really did want to leave. He would rather leave with a stranger than stay a moment longer.

Shirt Guy—Adam was calling him that in his head now—walked past him and through the doors. He trailed behind him like a shadow, face-to-face with little dachshunds. The outside air was blissfully cool and he took a deep breath of fresh air, savoring it as his lungs expanded. They walked down the steps descending into the roundabout in front of the mansion and sat next to each other on the last one.

“So, what do you do if you’re not drinking or smoking?” Shirt Guy asked. His voice sounded different when it was quiet and he had an accent that Adam somehow didn’t notice until now. He was just too overwhelmed before to register it.

“Uhm, I read or go to the park. I go to the museum too…when I can,” Adam said. He wondered why Shirt Guy was even talking to him, he didn't think he was interesting enough.

Shirt Guy grinned wolfishly and said, “So, you’re a nerd.”

Adam’s lips pursed in displeasure. “I guess,” He shrugged. “What do, uh, what do you do?”

”I fix cars.”

”Oh,” Adam said. “Cool.”

Shirt Guy snorted like he knew that Adam didn’t actually care and that was a little embarrassing.

“You like milkshakes?”

“...Milkshakes?”

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Read the rest on Ao3!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/64567516

Why do you think Will and Hannibal both went through scarcity but relate so differently to money? (love your blog)

Will grew up poor, but there is no indication that he suffered from literal hunger. More likely, he lived in a state of constant limitation, having enough for basic sustenance and shelter but little beyond that. His poverty was not one of extreme deprivation but of restriction, of never being able to afford more than the essentials. Later in life, however, Will gained financial security through his professional roles...his work as an FBI consultant, his teaching position, and even as an author of a book used in official training. By the time we see him in the show, he is far from poor; in fact, he has amassed significant wealth. Yet his attitude toward money is cautious, even frugal. This is a common trait in those who grow up without financial security. Money is not seen as something to be indulged in but as something to be preserved. The fear of losing it lingers, and so he is unlikely to splurge, preferring comfort over excess, stability over extravagance.

Hannibal’s trajectory, by contrast, is one of dramatic extremes. He was born into wealth, lost it in an incredibly brief yet profoundly traumatic period of scarcity, and then regained it, never to lose it again. The nature of his deprivation was far more intense than Will’s, his suffering was not just financial but existential, marked by starvation, war, and the destruction of his entire world. This kind of scarcity often breeds an obsession with indulgence rather than security. Those who experience such extreme deprivation, especially those who later come into great wealth, frequently develop compulsions toward excess, seeking to consume, possess, and experience everything available to them as a way to compensate for past lack. Hannibal, with his tastes, opulent lifestyle, and relentless pursuit of pleasure, embodies this tendency. He doesn't just enjoy luxury, he devours it, making an art form out of indulgence itself.

This contrast in their financial psychology also mirrors their deeper fears. Hannibal’s greatest fear is the loss of control, but paradoxically, he has a repressed desire to relinquish it. His indulgences, his love of fine dining, extravagant possessions, and excessive refinement, serve as an outlet for this tension, a "safe" way for him to surrender control without ever truly doing so. He allows himself to indulge because he remains the master of his own excess.

Will, on the other hand, fears losing his mind. His life is not built around control in the same way Hannibal’s is, but rather around creating an environment that minimizes risk. He does not need extravagance, he needs stability, predictability, a life free from unnecessary variables. His frugality is not just financial but existential; he seeks security, not pleasure, and constructs his world accordingly. His job then is his way of indulging in risk.

In the end, their differing relationships with wealth reflect the deeper structures of their personalities. Hannibal, ever-consuming, transforming indulgence into control, and Will, always conserving, ensuring he never steps too far into uncertainty.

wait, I have a good prompt: HANNIGRAM ROADTRIP!

The drive stretches long, roads unfurling like ribbons of asphalt, the scenery shifting in slow gradients of green and gold. The car hums beneath them, the low sound of the engine steady, hypnotic. Will drives, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely on his thigh, until Hannibal reaches over and places his own hand on top of it, fingers curling slightly, a quiet claim.

Half an hour later, they pass a field.

“Look. A cow," Hannibal notes, with complete sincerity.

Will side-eyes him. “Yeah. We have a lot of those.”

Another few miles. More cows.

“Look,” Hannibal says again, perfectly calm. “A cow.”

Will exhales slowly through his nose. “Hannibal.”

More cows.

“A cow.”

Will groans, running a hand down his face. “If you say that one more time, I’m pulling over and leaving you with them.”

Somewhere along a long stretch of road, they stop at a tiny roadside diner.

Will stirs his coffee, watching Hannibal inspect his plate with all the enthusiasm of a man deciphering hieroglyphs.

“Something wrong with your eggs?”

Hannibal exhales delicately. “They appear to have been cooked aggressively.”

Will laughs. “Yeah, I’m sure you were real delicate with the ones at your house.”

Hannibal spears a piece with his fork. “I raise chickens with dignity, Will.”

Will leans back in his seat, grinning. “What, did you give them poetry lessons before you butchered them?”

Hannibal considers this. “Not explicitly.”

The road before them seems endless and golden, flickering with mirages in the heat. The car is filled with a comfortable hum, the engine, the low static of the radio, and the occasional sound of Will sipping from a gas station coffee that is, against all odds, actually good.

“Look,” Hannibal says, pointing. “A cow.”

Will grits his teeth. “I swear to God, if you—”

They pass another one.

Hannibal: “A cow.”

Will grips the wheel, exhaling.

Another field.

“Several cows.”

Will groans loudly, slumping forward over the steering wheel. “Hannibal, I swear on all things holy—”

Hannibal, watching him suffer, smiles contentedly to himself.

An hour later, they pull into a gas station in the middle of nowhere. It’s the kind of place that sells both cigarettes and questionable taxidermy.

Hannibal is inside, scrutinizing the snack aisle as though choosing fine wine, when Will grabs two bags of gummy worms and a Red Bull from the fridge.

Hannibal looks at him with mild disapproval. “You insist on fueling yourself exclusively with artificial flavors.”

Will shrugs. “And you insist on standing in front of the jerky display like a serial killer deciding which part of the human body to eat first.”

Hannibal glances at the jerky in his hand. Then at Will. Then back at the jerky.

Will narrows his eyes. “You don’t have to answer that.”

Hannibal places the jerky in their basket anyway.

Somewhere in the winding backroads, with the windows down and the scent of wild grass drifting in, Will takes one hand off the wheel and slides it over Hannibal’s knee.

Hannibal doesn’t say anything, just rests his own hand over Will’s, tracing absentminded patterns along the back of it.

They don’t talk for a while. Just the sound of tires on gravel, wind rustling through the trees, the occasional flicker of the radio catching static.

Then Hannibal murmurs, “If I had met you earlier, do you think we would have taken a trip like this?”

Will glances at him. “You mean before the murders?”

Hannibal smirks, turning his hand over to lace their fingers together. “Before the murders.”

Will hums, thinking. Then he squeezes Hannibal’s hand. “Yeah.” A pause. “Except you would’ve still pointed out every cow.”

Eventually, after too many hours in the car, Will sighs, pulling into the parking lot of a roadside motel.

“We stopping here?” Hannibal asks.

Will turns off the ignition, groaning as he stretches his arms. “Yeah. My back is 80 years old, and I’m not sleeping in this damn car.”

Hannibal reaches over and gently kneads the back of Will’s neck with his fingers. It’s a slow, methodical movement, easing out the tension. Will exhales deeply, tilting his head into the touch.

“Keep doing that,” he mutters. “Might even forgive you for the cow thing.”

Hannibal presses a kiss to his temple, warm and lingering.

Later, when they’re lying in bed, Will half-asleep with Hannibal curled against him, warm and steady, Will mumbles, “Kinda nice, just driving with you.”

Hannibal smiles against his shoulder. “We should do it more often.”

Will huffs out a quiet laugh. “Maybe somewhere with fewer cows.”

Hannibal, already drifting off, murmurs, “Unacceptable.”

I think my psychiatrist is evil, Snoopy...

absolutely obsessed with the dynamic between Matt and Frank it's gotta be one of my favorite character dynamics of all time. Frank kills people as a hobby and Matt has never killed in his life. they can't have a conversation without cursing each other out. they trust each other enough to hold one another as they jump off a building. they physically fight more often than not. Frank has seen Matt's bare ass. they're both in love with the same woman who respects herself too much to hook up with either one of them. Matt is a Catholic who believes every soul can be saved except for his own and Frank doesn't think either of theirs needs to be. can anybody hear me is this thing on

The Hand of God