#beverly katz

[hanniballectersjadebuttplug]

my favourite thing about hannibal is that all the characters just fully believe in whatever will says. he could say “the killer murders people and displays them this way because he was born without a left pinkie toe” and jack will just be like “right, you heard him”

[rocktheholygrail]

Hannibal (2013-2015)

Yes, Will and I do make a good team.

[frederickchiltonsdivacup]

It's weird how many people don't know that Hannigram is literally canon. Like, Hannibal literally looks directly into Will's eyes in Mizumono and says -- out loud, mind you -- "Get butt ass naked right now, fish boy" and then Will drops to his knees and gives Hannibal the CRAZIEST bj and then they run off to italy together and get married and Chilton gets pregnant and Jack's the father and Bella doesn't have cancer anymore and Beverly is alive and Abigail goes to college and

[murderfathers]

I know we’re 2 months into 2026 but is it too late to do my yearly hannibal new years post??

[tethered-heartstrings]

[tiredegggo]

[cece693]

hello! could i request a hannibal x male reader whose love language is physical touch, but he's too anxious to initiate anything with hannibal because he's been called clingy in previous relationships? thank you and keep up the great work <3

PLEASE, IF I DETESTED YOUR TOUCH, YOU WOULD'VE BEEN SERVED AS DINNER ALREADY

Hannibal Lecter x GN! Reader

authors note: I changed the reader to be gender neutral as nothing in the fic really implies a specific gender. Also, I had many ideas of how this could be angsty and heart wrenching but ultimately decided on just fluff and Hannibal comforting us because we need sweetness in our life.

The silence in Hannibal’s study was a comfortable thing, usually. Currently, you were curled in one of the plush leather armchairs, a book open but unread in your lap. Your gaze kept drifting to Hannibal, sat at his desk, meticulously sketching what looked like a human heart.

Your hands ached to touch him. Physical contact was your native tongue, but with Hannibal, you were mute.

The ghost of your ex’s voice echoed in your mind. “God, you’re so clingy. Can’t you just be normal for five minutes?” And after that, you learned your lesson. You’d learned to keep your hands to yourself, to starve the need for contact until it became a dull, manageable ache. You thought you had it under control, but then you met Hannibal. A man whose touch, when he deigned to offer it, was a deliberate, searing brand that left you aching days later.

You shifted in your chair, the leather creaking softly. Hannibal’s pen stilled yet he didn’t look up. “Restless, my dear?”

“No,” you lied, “Just stretching.”

A noncommittal hum was his only reply. He resumed his sketching. You watched the elegant sweep of his wrist, the way his fingers held the pen. You imagined what it would feel like to go to him, to rest your hands on his shoulders, to press a kiss to the side of his neck. The fantasy was so vivid it was painful.

Don’t be needy. Don’t be that guy. He’ll see right through it. He’ll find you pathetic.

You forced your attention back to your book, the words blurring into meaningless shapes. You hugged your arms around yourself, a poor substitute for the real thing.

A few minutes later, the scratching of his pen stopped again. This time, you heard the soft click of it being placed on the desk. You risked a glance up. Hannibal was turned in his chair, watching you. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes, dark and perceptive, seemed to see straight through your flimsy defenses.

“You’ve been quiet this evening.”

“Just tired.” you mumbled, looking down at your book again.

“Is that all?”

He knew. Of course, he knew. It was both terrifying and strangely comforting.

You took a shaky breath and decided on a sliver of truth. “I’m just in my head a bit.”

He rose from his chair and moved to the liquor cart, pouring two glasses of what you knew was a very expensive brandy. He walked back, not to his desk, but to your chair. He held one out to you.

Your fingers brushed as you took the glass. The contact was electric, a jolt that went straight to your heart. You snatched your hand back as if burned, cradling the glass with both hands to still their trembling.

Hannibal noticed, but didn't say anything, settling on the ottoman in front of your chair.

“Your entire demeanor is a plea for something you are actively refusing to ask for,” his voice soft but firm. It wasn’t an accusation; it was a diagnosis. “It’s a fascinating paradox. You broadcast a need for proximity with your stillness, your posture, the way your eyes follow me, yet you recoil from the slightest touch.”

Your throat felt tight. “I don’t—”

“You do. Tell me, what do you fear will happen if you were to act on these impulses?”

You couldn’t answer. To admit it out loud would be to admit a weakness. A flaw.

Hannibal set his own glass aside and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Someone, in your past, taught you that your affection was a burden. That your desire for contact was excessive. ‘Clingy,’ is the word you’re thinking, isn’t it?”

You could only manage a weak, jerky nod.

“A foolish, crude word used by those who are incapable of appreciating the depth of what is being offered. To be ‘clingy’ is to seek connection. To desire reassurance. To express a bond that transcends language. It is not a flaw. It is a language.”

He reached out, slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away. His fingers gently traced the line of your jaw.

“Your love language is physical touch,” Hannibal continued, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “It is as valid and as beautiful as any symphony, any work of art. To deny it is to deny a fundamental part of yourself. And I,” he paused, his gaze holding yours, “have no interest in a diluted version of you. I want the whole, unedited composition.”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until it escaped in a ragged sob.

“Shh," his other hand came up to cup the back of your neck. “There is no need for that. There is only a need for honesty. With me and with yourself.”

The dam broke. All the months of suppressed need, of carefully constructed distance, came crashing down. You surged forward, your hands flying to his chest, fisting in the soft fabric of his shirt. It wasn’t graceful or seductive. It was desperate, clumsy, and real.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent. You felt his arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against him in a secure embrace. One hand moved in slow, soothing circles on your back, the other held the back of your head. After a long moment, you pulled back just enough to look at him. Hannibal's eyes were soft, filled with an emotion that looked terrifyingly like adoration.

[goose-smoothie]

shout out to characters whose loyalty led them to misfortune. my favourite genre of character fr