I KNOW WHO I AM.

 — 𝙼𝚈 𝙷𝙰𝙽𝙳𝚂 𝙰𝚁𝙴 𝙲𝙻𝙴𝙰𝙽.— 𝚈𝙾𝚄𝚁 𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙳 𝙸𝚂 𝙽𝙾𝚃.  

[vylingas-a]

𝙿𝙴𝙾𝙿𝙻𝙴 𝙸’𝙳 𝙻𝙸𝙺𝙴 𝚃𝙾 𝙶𝙴𝚃 𝚃𝙾 𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆 𝙱𝙴𝚃𝚃𝙴𝚁!

𝟶𝟶𝟷. ( ALIAS / NAME )  :  hannah. 𝟶𝟶𝟸.   ( BIRTHDAY )  :  december 3rd. 𝟶𝟶𝟹.   ( ZODIAC SIGN )  :  sagittarius. 𝟶𝟶𝟺.   ( HEIGHT )  :  5′5.5″. 𝟶𝟶𝟻. ( HOBBIES )  :  reading, singing, candle-making, baking, traveling, thrifting/antiquing, hiking. 𝟶𝟶𝟼.   ( FAVOURITE COLOUR )  :  drab/military greens, pale/grey blues, darker reds, grey. 𝟶𝟶𝟽.   ( FAVOURITE BOOKS )  :  the aeneid, the things they carried, deathless, the lord of the rings trilogy, rebecca, burial rites. 𝟶𝟶𝟾.   ( LAST SONG LISTENED TO )  : hmmm my sister’s friend has been playing some unfamiliar stuff this weekend but i spent friday listening to opera at work and i think i ended on la traviata. 𝟶𝟶𝟿.   ( LAST FILM OR SHOW WATCHED )  :  last film was get on up and last show was the terror (again). 𝟶𝟷𝟶.   ( INSPIRATION FOR MUSE )  :  uhhh so much! music (especially opera and instrumental), art (especially italian renaissance, 17th century dutch still lifes/similar styles, old anatomical drawings/prints) and architecture/interior design, the idea of life as theatre/performance, religion and religious imagery (although not as like… a faith or belief of hannibal’s), physicality and physical intimacy as a weapon, basically anything about food, eating, cooking, and cannibalism, animal/predator imagery… also quotes/literature! dante, philosophy, psychology, shakespeare… i have three huge drafts on this account where i stick quotes that resonate with me and/or i think hannibal would reference in conversation, and i frequently browse that, my aes sideblog, and my pintrest board for inspiration when writing replies. 𝟶𝟷𝟷.   ( STORY BEHIND URL )  :  it’s (an apparently little-used) lithuanian adjective meaning insidious, perfidious, crafty, sly, arch, cunning, deceptive, scheming, etc. and for my sideblog, errakal is a mesopotamian “god of wanton devastation” or destruction/storms and the destruction they cause.

𝚃𝙰𝙶𝙶𝙴𝙳 𝙱𝚈:  @realitv and @mudwoven 💕thank you both! 𝚃𝙰𝙶𝙶𝙸𝙽𝙶:  @wheelturns @behaviorisms @fimbulvtr @la-mangouste @writinghannibal

[onsand]

𝟶𝟷𝟶.   ( INSPIRATION FOR MUSE )  :  i draw a lot from nature, especially rivers/streams and like... the interplay of greenery and water, and artistic renditions of it. artists like andrew wyeth and todd hido, the imagery of lit windows at night. the interplay of light and darkness. the idea of isolation, self-control and restraint. fishing, lures, and the metaphors that go along with it. the piano, and piano music. the self as a construct or a costume that can be easily switched, and cliche idea of wolves hiding among sheep. anything that plays with vigilantism and grey morality, gothic horror, ill-fated/unavoidable love... also, like hannibal, i have a ton of quotes drafted and frequently browse them, my sideblog, and my pintrest board. 𝟶𝟷𝟷.   ( STORY BEHIND URL )  :  comes from a quote from 110 (buffet froid)—“stability requires strong foundations, jack. my moorings are built on sand.” sideblog (stabilost) is just a dumb mash-up of stability and lost.

[mistikfir]

“WiII Graham, you’re under arrest for murder. You have the right to remain silent.”

[onsand]

𝙲𝙷𝙰𝚁𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝚁 𝚂𝚃𝚄𝙳𝚈:  𝙱𝙸𝚁𝙳𝚂 

SPARROW.     innocence.   big dreamer.   waking up too early.   walking home.   being afraid of meeting new people.   slim hands.   always cold.   reading a book under a tree.   the smell of the forest.   missing your home.

EAGLE.     independent.   caring too much for others.   sharp looks.   walking through the city late at night.   the tallest and most spectacular building.   iron.   being single and okay in a world that tells you that being single is bad.

SWIFT.     falling in love easily and heavily.   traveller.   the infinity of the bluest sky.   storms.   broken smiles.   forgetting people who used to be your beloved ones.   feeling out of place.   mistrusting people.   a fleeting romance.

CROW.     feeling as if you have seen so much and as if you know a lot.   prejudging.   tight hugs that leave you breathless.   a grey sky.   serenity.   intelligence.   being left behind.   chains.   smoke.   the pride of someone wise.  

DOVE.     petals.   jealousy.   being tired of living with the same old faces.   whispered secrets.   marble.   sundresses.   white clothes.   the first sunset of winter.   pride in who you are.   learning to get over someone.

SEAGULL.     family.   golden light.   the sea murmuring in your ear.   summer afternoons.  caramel ice cream.   collecting seashells and other things and calling them treasures.  living breezy and carefree.   swimming in the sunlight.

CANARY.     artistic.   getting excited easily.   dancing and singing while you are alone.   looking at your friends having fun.   no phone.   being afraid of judgment.   spring.   a meaningful gift.   the first ray of sunlight.

𝚃𝙰𝙶𝙶𝙴𝙳 𝙱𝚈: @kostuznyet thank you so much!! 𝚃𝙰𝙶𝙶𝙸𝙽𝙶: whoever wants to do it!

[sunsounds]

“Dark summer grass. Lightning bugs in their slow flashing. The night above you was more in you than your breath, the stars always shifting in your chest.”

— Joanna Klink, from Night Sky in “The Nightfields” (via adrasteiax)

[365filmsbyauroranocte]

Winter Light (Ingmar Bergman, 1963)

[hannibalism]

You called us murder husbands.

[onsand]

@fatebane said:    catharsis. god knows i’m due for some, right? \ beverly

    𝙱𝙴𝙷𝙸𝙽𝙳 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙳𝚁𝙰𝚆𝙽 𝙲𝚄𝚁𝚃𝙰𝙸𝙽𝚂, 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽𝙸𝙽𝙶 𝙻𝙸𝙶𝙷𝚃 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙲𝙺 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝙶𝙾𝙻𝙳𝙴𝙽.  it spills out around the window’s edges, the way froth from a carbonated beverage sometimes expands past its constraints, and outlines the rectangle of fabric in a fuzzy honey-colored halo, infusing the contrived darkness of the room with a stark reminder of the sun.  will doesn’t have curtains on his windows; deliberate blindness is unsustainably naive, and a choice he doesn’t have the luxury of making.  he sleeps in his living room in a tight-fisted grasp at vigilance, and control only works when paired with awareness.  he values his privacy, but not to the point of malignant indulgence.

    the light casts a glare on the television screen, where a dark title screen loops against a backdrop of ominous music.  though the film hasn’t started, will is certain he won’t be interested—movies and tv shows have never held much appeal, and he’s really only ever entertained them on the rare occasions he has ventured into socialization.  this was beverly’s choice, not his, but it’s something he’s willing to indulge.  he won’t pretend to like it, but he likes her, and that’s enough.

    she pads into the living room cradling a bowl of popcorn in the crook of her arm, two glasses in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other.  the smell of salt and butter is strong and entirely expected, comforting in the distant, conceptual way cliches sometimes are.  easy and domestic and familiar—in theory, if not in practice.  he takes the glass from beverly with a brief smile, lips twitching up and then down again, like the muscles around his mouth are too unpracticed to hold the pose for long, and lets her pour them both a few fingers’ worth once she’s unburdened herself of the rest of the spoils and settled beside him on the couch.  he noses the whiskey while she reaches for the remote, letting the pungent sting of it overpower the soft, warm scent of the popcorn.

    beverly speaks as she settles back into the cushions, flashing will a wry smile as she digs a handful of popcorn out of the glass bowl.  they rustle dully against each other, kernels rasping against the bottom, where they’ve settled.  will’s eyes are drawn to the movement, ivory and gold jostling beneath the disruption of her hand.  his brows pull together, mouth twisting without any real humor.

    “when has god cared about what we’re due?”    he asks drily.  immediately, regret pangs in his chest; he winces, and hides it behind his glass of whiskey, with which he chases his words.

    will doesn’t apologize, but he does try for another vaguely pained close-mouthed smile.  when beverly pushes the bowl of popcorn over to him, he fights the denial on his tongue and fishes out a few pieces instead.  she smiles back at him when he does, small but genuine; will watches the curve of her mouth for a moment before turning to the television, fingertips slick with butter and the sharpness of salt lingering on his tongue.

[bunnivalentine]

         𝕄𝕒𝕪𝕓𝕖 𝕀'𝕞 𝕥𝕙𝕖  ( 𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻 )  𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥'𝕤 𝕓𝕖𝕖𝕟 𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖 𝕒𝕝𝕝  𝓪𝓵𝓸𝓷𝓰…

[plnthe-aaa]

               psa : this blog respects duplicates .

i’m here to support you all and cheer you on , not to tear you down . i will never use ic interactions to insult your portrayal or belittle you . if there is anything i can help you with , i will . this is not a competition and i am not your rival .

[onsand]

you guys ever think about how at bella’s funeral will literally sits down behind jack and the best thing he can come up with is: “i hope that she's somewhere today, jack. and that she's comfortable.”

[onsand]

was letting my dog out and saw my distant neighbor had their top-floor lights on so their windows were lit up between the dark trees and can i just say... will graham vibes...

[octopusgirl]

From “The Flowers of Evil” by Charles Beaudelaire Funeral Parade of Roses (薔薇の葬列) (1969) Dir. Matsumoto Toshio

[kuutamosonaatti]

[onsand]

@bonebaker said:    ‘ you can have another. there’s no one else to eat them but me. ’

    𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙰𝙵𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚃𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝙵𝚁𝚄𝙸𝚃 𝙰𝙽𝙳 𝚂𝚄𝙶𝙰𝚁 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙸𝙲𝙺 𝙸𝙽 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙼𝙾𝚄𝚃𝙷.  tart cherry and thick strands of icing and flaky pastry, the overall effect cloyingly saccharine in a way he doesn’t normally enjoy.  will has always preferred savory to sweet—has found this particular sort of richness overwhelming, indulgent.  too one-note and predictable to deserve or offset its reputation of lavishness.  it’s not the kind of food he chooses often, though it isn’t exactly self-denial if he’s not predisposed to desiring the thing he avoids in the first place.  it’s just—extravagant.  unnecessary, and lacking nuance.

    will regrets accepting the danish, but not because he disliked it.  in fact, it had been surprisingly good; he could tell its quality by the artistry of its preparation, the lightness of the dough and the freshness of the cherries.  still-warm, too, and clearly handmade, not proofed or frozen or assembled from plastic-wrapped pieces in a box.  when he was a child, he’d coveted this sort of thing.  down near the water, when the air was sticky with salt and thick with summer heat, he used to watch wealthy vacationers pull apart beignets and stuffed croissants with their fingers, sugar and bits of dough clinging to their skin.  his mouth would water, but it wasn’t the taste itself he’d longed for as much as the idea of it.  the associations clinging to the act—wealth and laughter, leisure and companionship.

    he’d chased the flavor once in a box of pillsbury toaster strudel, but, unsurprisingly, it left him wanting.

    his lips twist into an awkward smile.  will casts a look in micha’s direction, careful not to allow his gaze to slot into alignment with hers, before glancing away again.    “a lot of food for one person,”    he says, brows raising as his attention slides to the rest of the pastries, which glisten under the artificial light.  the desire to share food—companionship fostered by a meal, proof of an abundance—is nearly as old as humanity itself.  it’s an easy means to promote amity and sociability—like chumming the water.  arguably, it’s both bait and hook.  preceding friendship and securing it.

    normally, will does his best do avoid eating in front of people.  acquaintances.  it’s—unbearably intimate.  vulnerable.  showing hunger is showing a wound, a gap inside yourself that needs to be filled.  like a glimpse of white underbelly, a chink in armor.  it is, ultimately, a form of exposure, and as such, something he only allows when there’s no suitable alternative.  he’s feeling the ache of it now, that flash of belated regret.  it would’ve been worse if micha hadn’t taken a pastry herself—there’s a power imbalance in that kind of arrangement, provider and recipient, in the divide of watching and participation.  it’s in will’s interest to encourage an accord between them—extracting relevant information is easier from friend than stranger—but the practice has always fit awkwardly over his shoulders.

    “were you—expecting company?  or just hoping for it?”

[quotespile]

Eye contact is the most intimacy two people can have – forget sex – because the optic nerve is technically an extension of the brain, and when two people look into each other’s eyes, it’s brain-to-brain.

Douglas Coupland, Hey Nostradamus! (via bluebeardsbride)

[set-the]

A foggy night at Spitaalijärvi (Leprosy lake)

[onsand]

hi this is just a reminder that will makes his dogs’ food from scratch... he uses wehani, wild, and basmati rice, eggs, garden vegetables, fresh turkey meat and stock, and rosemary from the little potted plants he keeps on his windowsill! i’ve gone back and forth on this, but i’m going to (for now at least) say it’s something he’s been doing for a long time, but that his recipe gets a little more elaborate/a little more hannibal-esque from mid-s2 on. not that he ever would’ve skimped, but little details like growing his own rosemary instead of buying it at the supermarket (a mirror to hannibal’s herb wall), switching to using wehani, wild, and basmati rice instead of just white and/or brown, grinding his own turkey meat and making his own stock vs using pre-ground and store-bought.