Antler Velvet

Call me Fenris/Graham | 21 | he, archaic | aroacespec | BPD + AUDHD + CPTSD | australian, italian | single, queer

• perpetually tired

• interests fluctuate violently but currently orbiting around Hannibal, fantasy, horror, classic literature, queer media, strange little creatures, dark academia, and things generally considered unsettling

• artist sometimes

• probably listening to something melancholic and pretending it isn’t affecting me psychologically

This blog contains:

- Hannigram (Lots. Of it.)

- gender thoughts

- aesthetics that look damp

- accidental philosophy

- bg3, marvel, and other fandoms

- blood symbolism and sacrifice or something

- media analysis written at unreasonable hours

- occasional emotional collapse disguised as humour

I disappear for days at a time sometimes. It’s rarely personal. Social interaction feels a bit like being observed through glass.

I enjoy:

• long forests drives

• stag related things

• weather that feels threatening

• people with strange accents

• characters who are one bad day away from cannibalism

Loki had met warriors greater than mortals could comprehend. Gods. Kings. Monsters stitched together from rage and magic alike.

Yet somehow, his attention kept drifting back to you.

A Midgardian.

Fragile by Asgardian standards. Mortal. Achingly human.

And still… you fascinated him.

“You watch people before you speak,” Loki observed one evening from where he lounged against the balcony rail of Stark Tower, green silks catching the city lights below. “Most mortals only wait for their turn to talk.”

You shrugged awkwardly beneath his gaze, hands shoved into your pockets. “Guess I like understanding people first.”

“Hm.” His eyes narrowed, studying you like a puzzle box he had not yet pried open. “Dangerous trait.”

The silence that followed should have been uncomfortable. Instead, it settled warm around you.

You had expected the God of Mischief to be cruel all the time. Sharp-tongued. Impossible. But with you, there was an odd patience to him… as though he genuinely enjoyed dissecting every thought that crossed your mind.

And lately, he had become… strangely attentive.

His gaze lingered when you squared your shoulders unconsciously. When your voice dipped lower after laughing. When you carried yourself with confidence you didn’t even realise you possessed.

“You diminish yourself,” Loki said suddenly.

You blinked. “What?”

He stepped closer, towering over you with effortless grace. “You recoil every time you speak with certainty. As though you expect someone to punish you for taking up space.”

Your chest tightened.

“I just…” You looked away. “People don’t really see me the way I want them to.”

For once, Loki did not interrupt with wit or mockery.

Instead, gloved fingers tilted your chin back toward him.

“I do.”

The words struck harder than they should have.

His expression softened… not pitying, never pitying! but knowing. Intense. “Midgard is obsessed with placing people into cages and then acting horrified when they claw their way free.” His thumb brushed once against your jaw. “You are allowed to become whoever you were meant to be.”

You swallowed thickly as he adjusted the collar of your shirt with irritating precision.

“Stand properly,” he murmured. “There. Better.”

A smirk tugged at his mouth as your posture instinctively straightened beneath his touch.

“There is something deeply princely about you when you stop apologising for existing.”

hand on the back of your neck in public.

thumb rubbing slow circles into your scalp while they talk to someone else.

“good boy” delivered absentmindedly while you’re actively trying not to combust.

like okay great now i have to spend the next six business days recovering from the way you pushed my hair back and told me i was being well-behaved.

and the WORST part is when they do it casually. not even teasing. not even trying to fluster you. just instinctively petting your head while you lean against them because somewhere along the line they decided you’re theirs to soothe.

Disclaimer: this is more of a modern take on the two

(aka how two disasters survive on caffeine and yearning)

🩸 Astarion absolutely orders coffee like he’s insulting the barista personally.

“Half sweet. Extra shot. Oat milk. Not that oat milk.”

Then drinks half of Gale’s by mistake anyway.

🔮 Gale drinks coffee like a sleep-deprived academic being held together by the seams of chaos and wit.

Black coffee when working.

Ridiculously sugary seasonal drinks when emotionally compromised.

🩸 Astarion pretends he hates sweet drinks but the second Gale orders something caramelized with whipped cream, he’s sipping it through Gale’s straw while maintaining eye contact.

🔮 Gale owns at least three mugs that say things like:

“#1 Wizard” (gifted by Tara)

“Don’t Talk To Me Until I’ve Finished My Spell Slot”

and one aggressively large soup-mug exclusively for finals-week energy.

🩸 Astarion likes espresso because he enjoys tiny drinks with devastating emotional consequences.

🔮 Gale gets distracted talking and lets his coffee go cold constantly.

Astarion complains every single time while reheating it for him anyway.

Coffee shop dates with them are unbearable because Gale infodumps about magical bean cultivation for twenty minutes and Astarion keeps interrupting solely to flirt with him.

Gale: *carefully crafting the perfect latte*

Astarion: “You know this is just bean soup, yes?”

🩸 Astarion judges people’s coffee orders silently.

Except Gale’s. Gale’s he judges loudly.

🔮 Gale absolutely learned latte art to impress him.

Astarion acted unimpressed while secretly taking mental screenshots every time Gale handed him a heart-shaped foam design.

Neither of them can cook breakfast properly but together they can produce one emotionally charged café morning.

Gale: “If you’re feeling faint after your bout with Cazador, Astarion, I don’t mind donating some blood.”

Astarion: “When you’re still full of that Netherese bile? I’ll pass, thank you.”

They both decide… separately, dramatically — that tonight will be the night they hand the poems over.

So naturally they collide in the middle of camp.

Astarion has his folded paper hidden behind his back. Gale is doing exactly the same thing. There’s a long, horrible silence where they both realize at once.

“You first,” Gale says, already red in the face.

“Oh no, absolutely not,” Astarion replies, scandalized. “I value my dignity.”

“You wrote something too?”

“You wrote something too?”

Another silence.

Then Astarion, with all the composure of a man being led to execution, shoves the poem into Gale’s chest and says, “If you laugh, I’ll kill you.”

Gale takes it with trembling hands… only to realize Astarion is staring at his poem with equally betrayed embarrassment.

And for once, neither of them can manage a clever remark, because the realization settles in at the exact same moment:

Oh.

Astarion: “That’s either deeply romantic or profoundly concerning.”

— gale trying to explain some ancient weave theory while astarion lounges across furniture like an overfed cat, interrupting every five minutes with “you’re very pretty when you’re pretentious, you know.”

— astarion pretending he doesn’t care about magic until gale casually lights candles with a flick of his wrist and suddenly astarion is staring at him like he personally hung the stars over waterdeep.

— gale being one of the first people to compliment astarion in ways that aren’t transactional. not “beautiful,” not “seductive,” but clever. funny. observant. things attached to personhood instead of performance.

— astarion absolutely abusing prestidigitation once he learns what it can do. gale walks into camp and all his wine has been chilled perfectly and there are dramatic rose petals everywhere and astarion’s sitting there acting like he has no idea how it happened.

— gale reading aloud at night because astarion likes the sound of his voice even when he claims the books are “terminally boring.”

— astarion stealing gale’s clothes specifically because they smell like parchment, cedar, and expensive spell components.

— the first time gale sees astarion genuinely, uncontrollably laugh, he forgets what he was saying mid-sentence because he’s too busy staring.

— gale, who spent years loving a goddess who felt unreachable, falling disastrously hard for someone painfully real and sharp-edged and frightened.

— astarion acting smug whenever gale gets flustered, only to completely short-circuit the second gale starts flirting back intentionally.

“careful, my dear,” gale murmurs, leaning close enough for candlelight to catch in his earring, “you do realize wizards are capable of learning patterns.”

and astarion just. visibly bluescreens.

— they would either spend the entire evening making out dramatically over a study desk or arguing over semantics for three hours straight. sometimes both simultaneously.

— gale kissing astarion’s hands like they belong to something holy.

— astarion, who spent centuries being consumed, discovering what it feels like to be adored. slowly. reverently. without expectation.

together they become absolutely insufferable in the most romantic way imaginable.

like “i’m going to treat you like a man” isn’t a threat, it’s a promise. like he sees you and decides, quietly and without debate, that your masculinity is real and it’s going to be respected.

“you’re going to work hard,” he says, voice low and steady, “because that’s what men do. you’re going to learn discipline. you’re going to stand in it properly.”

and it’s not humiliation… it’s recognition. it’s someone refusing to let you be anything less than what you are trying so hard to become.

he doesn’t coddle you. he doesn’t question you. he just treats you like it’s already settled: you’re a man, so you’re going to be held to it, guided through it, made stronger inside it.

• Hannibal would never see your masculinity as artificial. Quite the opposite. He’d see it as deliberate. Curated. Chosen with intent.

• “Most people become themselves accidentally,” he tells you once over wine. “You did it consciously. That is exceedingly rare.”

• Hannibal is fascinated by transformation. Becoming. Reinvention. The act of shaping oneself into something truer, sharper, more beautiful. Your transness slots into his worldview so naturally it almost terrifies you.

• He notices every subtle change with impossible precision:

- your voice dropping

- new confidence in your posture

- the way certain clothes begin fitting differently

- how gender euphoria softens your entire face

• And he treats each change like something sacred.

• Hannibal would be infuriatingly good at affirming masculinity without making it feel performative. Adjusting your collar. Calling you “handsome” in a tone that sounds like confession. Resting a hand at the small of your back possessively in public.

• He’s deeply attracted to restraint in masculinity. Quiet confidence. Self-control. Elegance over aggression. He’d adore the way your masculinity feels intentional rather than inherited.

• Dysphoria would make him quietly furious. Not at you — never at you — but at the indignity of you being forced into discomfort by your own body or by other people’s perception.

• If somebody misgendered you, Hannibal’s reaction would be subtle enough to miss unless you knew him well. A slight smile. Too calm. The atmosphere suddenly dangerous.

• Hannibal would buy you clothing like he’s sculpting you in real time:

- tailored coats

- dark button-ups

- expensive leather gloves

- watches that make your hands look more masculine

- cologne chosen specifically for you

• “Clothing,” Hannibal says softly while fixing your cuffs, “is an extension of the person wearing it. One should dress with intention.”

• He falls in love through observation first. Memorization. Study. The realization sneaks up on him one evening when he catches himself feeling protective over your happiness in a way that is catastrophically human.

• Hannibal would love every part of your masculinity, including the parts still becoming. Especially those parts.

• He’d kiss your scars reverently if you allowed him to. Not out of pity. Out of recognition. Proof that you survived yourself long enough to become someone new.

• “There is something profoundly beautiful,” Hannibal murmurs against your skin, “about a man who created himself.”

• And that’s what undoes him completely:

You are not unfinished to Hannibal Lecter.

• Will would never make your transness feel like a spectacle. No weird carefulness. No treating you like something fragile. He’d look at you and understand you immediately in that frightening way he understands people.

• He notices the small things instead:

- the way you square your shoulders unconsciously

- checking your reflection in windows

- how certain words make you visibly relax

- the particular exhaustion that comes with being perceived constantly

• He uses your name carefully at first. Like something important. Something worth getting right every single time.

• Will is deeply, instinctively drawn to masculinity that has been consciously built. There’s something about trans masculinity specifically that would fascinate him — not in a fetishistic way, but because you chose yourself. You constructed an identity out of survival and instinct and desire.

• He’d understand dysphoria without needing every detail explained. Not literally, but emotionally. The disconnect. The alienation from your own body. The feeling of being observed incorrectly.

• If somebody misgendered you, Will wouldn’t make a scene unless you wanted him to. But the entire atmosphere around him would change. Quietly dangerous.

• He falls in love slowly and then all at once. One day you’re sitting on his porch in silence while dogs sleep against your legs and he realizes your presence has become part of the architecture of his life.

• Will liking the rough, mundane masculinity of you:

- your voice in the morning

- stubble

- oversized jackets

- tired eyes

- the way your hands look holding coffee mugs

- the relief on your face when someone calls you “sir” without hesitation

• He’d never ask invasive questions. If you offered information, he’d listen carefully. If you didn’t, he’d simply accept the boundaries without resentment.

• Will is the type to love quietly but thoroughly. Fixing things around your house without mentioning it. Keeping your favorite food around unintentionally-on-purpose. Standing slightly closer to you in crowded places.

• He notices when dysphoria days are bad before you say anything. He just… adjusts around it. Softer touch. More reassurance. More grounding physical affection without making you explain yourself.

• “You know,” Will says eventually, half-asleep beside you, “I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who fought this hard just to become themselves.”

• And that’s the thing that undoes him most. Not that you’re trans. But that despite everything done to you, everything demanded of you, you still became exactly who you are anyway.

• Hannibal seeing masculinity in someone long before they do. Not correcting softness, only refining it. Treating masculinity like an art form instead of a performance.

• Will recognizing “male loneliness” in you instantly. The exhausted, half-feral kind. The kind that lives in oversized jackets and eye bags and silence.

• Hannibal adjusting your tie with bloodless surgeon hands and saying something devastating like, “You wear masculinity as though it was always meant for you.”

• Will teaching masculinity accidentally. Sleeves rolled up. Scruff. Quiet competence. Looking dangerous only because he looks tired.

• masculinity that is:

- damp curls

- visible veins

- old leather

- bruised knuckles

- standing in kitchens at 2am

- low voices

- dark circles

- restraint instead of aggression

- pretty enough to unsettle people

• Hannibal liking when masculinity becomes monstrous around the edges. Beautiful boys turning wolfish. Hunger hidden beneath politeness.

• Will looking at you for too long after you cut your hair shorter.

• Hannibal buying you tailored clothing because “structure changes the way one inhabits oneself.”

• “You are becoming,” Hannibal says softly, like it’s the most inevitable thing in the world.