The Mongoose I Want Under The House When The Snakes Slither By Is Actually Such A Raw, Sweet Romantic

“the mongoose i want under the house when the snakes slither by” is actually such a raw, sweet romantic pickup line and if i was will middle name graham and i just got fed a warm home cooked breakfast and piping hot coffee and i’m still in my underwear and some guy said that to me while looking at me like he sees me than more than the sum of my parts and what makes me repulsive and monstrous is actually my greatest strength my boxers would be on the floor i am just saying.

I’ve made this post like six times but it still fucks me up the China’s mountains just look like that. Like I spent decades thinking it was stylistic but no, they just have different mountains over there.

yandere! rockstar x manager! reader

“on another note, people have noticed your recent music has been quite romantic,” the host states, keen eyes pinned to her guest with an easy smile. “so who’s the lucky person, feroze? your fans are dying to know.”

with soft strands of crimson hair that fall over his flawless brown skin, sharp, stygian eyes lined with kohl, and the sleeves of his black shirt rolled back to reveal prominent muscles — feroze looks gorgeous. he has to, for his first interview of the new year.

“oh, i’m sure they are.” he drawls, crosses one leg over the other. “but that’s a secret i won’t ever tell, i’m not fond of sharing.” the audience, mainly consisting of teenagers who have his posters up on their walls, swoon, and the host laughs politely. “besides, they know who they are, and that’s enough for me.”

but feroze is stupid, you think, if he believes he can evade the host’s intrusive questions. this is her show, and despite his status as a celebrity rockstar — he’s here as her guest.

“not ready to go public just yet?” she asks, her words met with a shrug from the man seated across from her, but the woman persistently presses on, “alright, no names, but can you at least tell us more about this secret sweetheart of yours?”

“they’re the love of my life.” he states simply, expression apathetic. feroze rhythmically drums his fingers on his legs, “i could write a million songs in their name, and none would be able to properly capture the way i feel when i’m around them.”

“it’s something bigger than words can convey.” feroze’s words fall from his lips like a confession. and you notice that every time he talks, his tongue piercing glints under the harsh studio lighting. “in my language, we call it ishq.”

the host is about to say something, presumably ask the musician what he means, but he doesn’t give her a chance to, and you wince. he’ll get backlash for speaking over her, despite all the times you’ve reprimanded him for his impatience, especially in the predatory eyes of the media.

because popularity isn’t enough. no matter how many of his concerts sell out within seconds, or how many weeks his music tops worldwide charts — no limelight hides his brown skin, or his desi heritage. there are always those who lurk, waiting for him to mess up, and ready to tear him apart when he does.

“it’s a connection, a level of adoration that is beyond rationality,” he clarifies, “ishq can be beyond beautiful, or it can be utterly destructive. but either way, it leaves you an absolute mess.” feroze chuckles, the sound low and wry. but it is nothing compared to the approving applause from the audience, who watch the lovestruck star in awe.

“wow, that’s just lovely!” the host gushes, and, you note from your place in the audience of onlookers, glows with the pride of getting feroze to talk for so long, speak more than some simple words.

it’s undeniable that he’s a star, he belongs on his stage, commands attention when he sings with his husky voice and lays his heart bare in the lyrics. but when it comes to interviews or fan meets, it’s almost impossible to get a word out of him.

it’s mildly amusing to watch, the way everybody will try so hard to pry a few short sentences from his lips, when all he ever does around you, much to your vexation, is speak.

“i’ve built a name for myself, from the ground up, for over twenty three years,” his black eyes scan the applauding audience, and find yours, lingering there when he speaks. “but if they asked me to — i’d leave it all behind. the fame, this life.” he says, “the music would stay, songs of adoration and sweet nothings, but only for them and nobody else.”

“surely you don’t mean that?” the host asks the man seated across from her, “your fans would be absolutely devastated, to say the very least.” she winks at the audience, who agree wholeheartedly with her words. “and what would music even look like without the feroze khan?”

“if you want me to be honest with you, i simply don’t care.” he shrugs nonchalantly, and all of a sudden, the studio which was previously buzzing with excitement, falls entirely silent. “i don’t care if music falls apart, or if the world hates me for it.”

the host’s grin falters, and your heart skips a beat. he tilts his head to the side. “all of this?” he makes a vague gesture at the studio, the bright lights and dozens of eyes trained on him at this very moment. “it means nothing to me, next to them.”

“i guess you really love them, don’t you?” the host attempts to lighten the mood, but her smile strains the corners of her lips, and her eyes anxiously dart to the camera, ready to wrap up this conversation and move on.

“love is too simple of a word,” feroze muses, twirling one of his many rings between his lithe fingers, looping it around and over them with charming ease. “this is something messy and rough around the edges, but it’s something i want to experience forever, all the same.”

again, his eyes meet yours in the crowd, a slow smile spreading on his lips. meri jaan. he mouths, and you flush, heat creeping up to your cheeks out of embarrassment or irritation, you don’t know. but the words linger in your mind all the same, my love.

but as soon as feroze’s smile blossoms, it withers, and his expression smooths over, back to a bored gaze and his relaxed demeanour. you wearily run a hand over your face, irritation seeping under your skin at the rockstar’s insistence in actively ruining his career.

there’s tension in the studio, a palpable uneasiness draped over the silent audience — but if feroze notices, he doesn’t care enough to show it. the musician is the epitome of ease: arms lazily draped over the armchair he casually lounges in, legs crossed comfortably as he watches the host expectantly, ready for her next question, but not quite interested.

and you decide you’ve seen enough. so with your jaw set, and hands curled into hard fists, you turn on your heels and leave the studio without so much as a backwards glance.

you don’t need to look at him to know that feroze watches you walk out. but what you don’t know is that after you leave, he refuses to say a single word for the remainder of the interview.

by the time you and feroze get back to his place, your anger has twisted itself into a shimmering rage, and you make sure that he knows it too.

“you’re going to ruin your life and destroy your career!” you exclaim, hating the way he regards you with such nonchalance, even now. “i have tried, time and time again, to be patient with you — but telling your fans on live television that you don’t care about any of them??”

“not my fault if they can’t handle the truth” he shrugs, “let them all rot, they’re nothing to me. the only person i need is you.”

“feroze motherfucking khan.” you curse, “if someone hears you say that — you’re over!!” you seethe, grit your teeth and bite your tongue before you can say anything you’ll regret.

coming back from this interview was going to be difficult, but people had come back from worse, right? besides, you could always resort to bribery and censorship, if push comes to shove. but hopefully, if you can do your job right, it shouldn’t.

“why do you insist on making my job so difficult?” you mutter, lean against the wall and close your eyes in resignation, admitting defeat to the stubborn celebrity.

it’s the low sound of feroze’s voice that brings you back to the present.

“i’m making your job difficult, am i?” feroze laughs, the sound dripping with disbelief, you open your eyes, find that his darken. “you make mine impossible.” he narrows his black eyes, “when i see you at my concerts, i forget the lyrics to songs i’ve sang a million times, my hands start shaking, and i can barely hear the music over the sound of my heart.”

you shake your head, don’t trust yourself not to say something stupid, but something twists in your chest.

“even now,” with every word, he takes a step closer to you, until you’re pressed against the wall and he’s looming over you, hands reaching out for yours. “i can barely think straight. here,” he guides your palms against his chest, fingers gentle, even when he feels like being anything but. “can you feel it, what you do to me?”

“you drive me absolutely insane, with your very existence. every song of mine is about you, and whenever i perform knowing you’re watching me, i can barely breathe.” you look up at the musician, your anger giving way to something slightly softer, as you feel the erratic rhythm of his beating heart under your hands. “i love you.”

“don’t.” you manage, “don’t throw away your entire life for me. you’ve got the world at your fingertips, everybody either wants you, or wants to be you.” and it’s true, both of you know it. “you’re a superstar, feroze. music hasn’t seen something like you since cobain, don’t throw it all away for me — i’m not worth what you have.”

“not worth it?” feroze echoes, shakes his head as he wraps his fingers around your wrists, “then tell me why i go to sleep and wake up with my mind and body thinking about you. tell me why i want to devour you, one kiss at a time, and memorise the dips and curves of your body underneath mine.”

his voice is barely above a whisper as he lays his desires bare before you. “go on, use your words and tell me.”

but you have no answer for him, couldn’t think of one even if you tried, because the only thing on your mind is how close he is, how his lips ghost the shell of your ear and graze your own with every word.

“that’s what i thought,” feroze says, he considers something for a moment before continuing, “and forget my being a superstar, that’s not what i want, and it never has been since i met you.”

the limited space between you is heavy with desire and promises of debauchery, and you want nothing more than to let yourself sink into it. so, even when you know this is unprofessional, know you could lose your job for this — you can’t help yourself.

your anger is washed away by something warmer, something that leaves you wanting for more. “then what do you want, feroze?”

“i thought you’d never ask, meri jaan.” feroze breathes against your jaw, curls a hand around your throat.

“how about you let me show you exactly what i want,” his other hand holds your wrists, bound by his fingers, over your head. the man pushes his knees between your thighs, and finally smiles. “be mine, just for tonight — say yes, and i’ll show you what ishq means.”

something inside him comes undone when you press your lips against his, burning with want.

he knows. he knows he’s a handful, your rockstar always saying the wrong thing and giving you headaches, leaving you with yet another mess to deal with.

throughout the night, he realises that even his best music has nothing on the mellifluous sounds of you whimpering his name, all breathless. your anger dissipated and replaced by raw need.

he swears he’ll make it up to you. he’ll treat you so well, that you’ll never want to leave. besides, it’s not like you could, even if you tried — he wouldn’t let you. what’s a rockstar without his manager?

I have a confession to make in relation to this post.

When I watched Hannibal for the first time, I was completely convinced that Hannibal Lecter was innocent up until some point late in season 1.

I thought to myself "they're trying to convince me that he's the killer so hard right now, it has to be someone else." And I thought that that was the point, make it look like his eccentric taste lines up perfectly with every gruesome crime so he'll inevitably be falsely accused of murder. I found it so funny actually, I kept thinking man I wonder what is actually going on.

Because they made it so blaringly obvious that Hannibal was the killer, with all the puns and the food, I believed he was bound to be innocent.

Instead of realizing Hannibal was the killer when I saw this picture:

Instead I thought "I wonder what the actual context is"

Like I full on believed that this was all just a misunderstanding and Hannibal is being set up so badly and the plot of the show must be to prove his innocence in the most impressive way.

But no, he just kept getting more concretely evil.

@blessyouhawkeye

Message in a Bottle

An AU where Bedelia refuses to be Hannibal's therapist. When he insists, she educates him on the benefits of journaling. That very night Hannibal writes his first message, rolls it up, ties it with a ribbon, places it into a bottle, and flings it into the sea during his morning run. Then he just so happens to do it the next night, and the night after. What's the drawback to a little self-therapy? Besides, who else would spend the better half of their weekends cracking a World War Ally code? Especially one with Hannibal's own twist?

Chapter 1: Sunday Mournings

Chapter 2: I Can't Buoy-It

Okay, but I love how nbc Hannibal season 1 starts with Hannibal and Will both lonely and yearning for a life where they’re both seen and appreciated for who they are as their true selves.

For Hannibal, he knows exactly who he is and knows he will not find that in a person. Will, he doesn’t know his true self, he has glimpses into the darker depths of his own mind, but fears it. But despite that fear Will doesn’t know how to show anything but who he is. There’s layers of anxiety and self deprecation, but Will is trying to be honest. He’s not personable. He’s a fisherman, he loves dogs, he wants a family, he wants a friend, he hates Freddie Lounds. We get to know a lot about Will in season 1 because he lets us.

And of course, it bites him in the ass. We leave the first season with Will in prison, Hannibal having put him there, Will with no friends (none that have faith in him), life ruined, with Hannibal to gloat over.

So it’s so fun to see the same be done to Hannibal. (fun for me. lmao.)

There’s so much of Hannibal’s existence after giving himself up that mirrors Will’s. We get to see Hannibal, to the public, remove his person suit, he’s now bare for everyone else to see. Behind bars (glass) to be gawked at, mistrusted, and feared. No high society layer to trick you into a false sense of comfort, no education or doctorate to back that up.

Alana keeps a tight cage, the person with the key to Hannibal’s future. Chilton comes to mock, observe, write a book, uses Hannibal for his research, unsuccessfully but all the same. Jack, presumably doesn’t visit, but is a constant observer to Hannibal’s mailing list. And Will? He’s gone, as if he were never there to begin with.

Person suit gone, Hannibal has nothing more than to be himself, taunting his jailers, making silly jokes and just generally making the best of a bad time. Lonely and yearning for that love he now knows he wants and feels unconditionally, but having it outside his grasp.

Will, on the other hand? He’s finally learned to put his person suit on. It’s never more apparent than when we meet Molly. Who just doesn’t know Will. Will has created a suit somewhere between himself and Hannibal. Calm, secretive of his past, he knows how to play the room, knows how to gain the trust of a son and mother without truly giving most of himself away.

Will has the perfect picture of what he likely yearned for for years. Maybe even deludes himself into believing it, because Molly is a nice person, a good friend, he does care about her and her son. It’s just… she’s not his, and that’s most definitely not his son. Biology or not. Will forces himself to believe this is the life he craves, without being truly seen, without being himself at all.

He lands himself exactly in Hannibal’s position, with a Will Graham flair. And isn’t it just unbearable? What else is to follow when Will sees Hannibal again, and they both see themselves in the other, they see each other? And it’s gratifying.