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@vylingas-a
@𝚅𝚈𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙰𝚂: roleplay blog for dr. hannibal lecter of nbc’s hannibal, written by hannah ( 26, they/she, eastern time )
mutuals only, show-based, low activity. occasionally iconless. i use large text and light formatting (bold, italics, unicode text). partners are always welcome to turn meme responses into threads, approach for plotting, and ask for my discord. duplicates welcome!
𝙳𝙾𝙲𝚂 / 𝚂𝙸𝙳𝙴𝙱𝙻𝙾𝙶 / 𝙿𝙸𝙽𝚃𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚃 / 𝙽𝙰𝚅𝙸𝙶𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽
this blog has been archived!
this blog has been archived!
this blog has been archived!
#CADISFLY—WILL GRAHAM OF NBC’S HANNIBAL. ALL BELOVED BEINGS ARE VASES OF VENOM WE DRINK WITH OUR EYES CLOSED.
fingerguns
Rules and About : Ask : Answered
…Call me L…
Strictly 21+, OC and crossover friendly, independent Hannibal Lecter RP. Heavily influenced by headcanons, based in the NBC Hannibal universe but willing to play from film and literary canon.
Graphics by deductry
one chants out between two worlds: ǝɯ ɥʇᴉʍ ʞʅɐʍ ǝɹᴉⅎ ( ᴘsᴅ/ᴛᴇᴍᴘ )
𝙳𝙸𝚂𝙿𝙰𝚃𝙲𝙷𝙴𝙳
the sound of vertebrae snapping reverberates in the open space of dr. lecter’s patient exit. the only reason frank hadn’t shot him in the head or, better yet, stabbed him with the kabar up his sleeve, had been from some place of consideration for the space he’s already forced himself into. though frank’s never had to properly dispose of a body, he knows blood’s a bitch to clean.
while the body in his arms drops to the floor, frank watches the way lecter’s face changes, considers going for the gun tucked in his hip holster, but doesn’t. instead, he raises his hands in what appears to be surrender.
“ - this was the only way i could get to him,” frank says like it’s enough to suffice as an apology. the body of peter cooley, the son of an irish mobster, lies on the floor between them, his face turned like an owl toward him from his broken neck, wide dead eyes staring up at the ceiling. frank’s head cocks.
“i know you might be thinking of calling the police, but -” but what? something in him had urged him to do this, something more dumbly instinctive than logic, but that part of him’s never faltered, for all his shortcoming. frank glances back up at dr. lecter, squints, “i don’t think you want to.”
@vylingas· / plotted.
𝙸𝚃 𝙸𝚂 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚂𝙴𝙲𝙾𝙽𝙳 𝚃𝙸𝙼𝙴 𝙰 𝙿𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙴𝙽𝚃’𝚂 𝙽𝙴𝙲𝙺 𝙷𝙰𝚂 𝙱𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝚂𝙽𝙰𝙿𝙿𝙴𝙳 𝙸𝙽 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙾𝙵𝙵𝙸𝙲𝙴. hannibal’s brows lift, mouth parting in silent reproach of frank’s audacity. displeasure roils his blood, and he regards the lifeless body at their feet in silence, balling his vexation tightly beneath his sternum. he had not been particularly fond of peter cooley—had found him crass and unpolished, his edges jagged and lacking intrigue—but he objects to his office being used as a slaughtering ground. too many corpses and the fbi is bound to smell trouble—hannibal would prefer to limit tragedy to that of his own making, and has no interest in the messes of others.
peter is as wide-eyed and pitiful as franklyn froideveaux was, staring dumb and unseeing up from the floor like the carcass of a fish whose eyes have not yet filmed. hannibal purses his lips as the scent of excrement pierces the thin air around them. unlike with franklyn, he feels no remorse at this man’s passing, only irritation at the inconvenience, and, beneath that, a pinprick of intrigue, sharp and small—just enough to draw the first drop of blood.
“was it?” he asks drily, gaze sliding up to frank. this was his easiest access to peter—of that hannibal is sure—but the only access... his lip twitches, and he looks back down at peter. such deplorable laziness.
still, he cannot deny the truth of frank’s words. he hardly wishes to involve law enforcement in this unfortunate situation, if only to spare himself the headache. hannibal could kill frank and be done with the both of them, but he does not currently have a weapon on his person and would rather not face a gun unarmed. nor, truth be told, does he wish to snap off this verdant shoot—he does harbor some curiosity as to the shape of it when fully grown and sufficiently watered.
hannibal fixes a blandly wary look upon his face, brows raised and stitched together as he returns his attention to frank once more—falsified concern spread like whipping cream over a foundation of steel. “are you threatening me?” he asks, though he is well aware that is not the case.
@𝗖𝗔𝗗𝗜𝗦𝗙𝗟𝗬: 𝖠𝖫𝖫 𝖡𝖤𝖫𝖮𝖵𝖤𝖣 𝖡𝖤𝖨𝖭𝖦𝖲 𝖠𝖱𝖤 𝖵𝖠𝖲𝖤𝖲 𝖮𝖥 𝖵𝖤𝖭𝖮𝖬 𝖳𝖧𝖠𝖳 𝖶𝖤 𝖣𝖱𝖨𝖭𝖪 𝖶𝖨𝖳𝖧 𝖮𝖴𝖱 𝖤𝖸𝖤𝖲 𝖢𝖫𝖮𝖲𝖤𝖣.
thinking about the level of commitment it must’ve taken for mr. i’m-very-careful-about-what-i-put-into-my-body to slurp up frederick chilton’s raw, old, probably contaminated lip
it was women who in their writings repeatedly used bread, blood, hunger, and eating as their dominant images for union with God and neighbor—language which appears in male writers but is never central to their piety.
Caroline Walker Bynum | Holy Feast and Holy Fast: The Religious Significance of Food to Medieval Women (via abandonarium)
I’M GOING TO ENJOY MY RESURRECTION. written by meg.
𝙲𝙰𝙳𝙸𝚂𝙵𝙻𝚈
@vylingas sent for a starter: lean in to give my muse a tender kiss
𝙷𝙴 𝚃𝙸𝙻𝚃𝚂 𝙷𝙸𝚂 𝙲𝙷𝙸𝙽 𝚃𝙾 𝙳𝙴𝙻𝙸𝙱𝙴𝚁𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙻𝚈 𝙰𝙲𝙲𝙴𝙿𝚃 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙾𝙵𝙵𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝙺𝙸𝚂𝚂, even as it’s being delivered to him with the expectation of acceptance. The confidence with which Hannibal extends his affection isn’t unexpected, though the outward degree of this physical intimacy is new for them. Inwardly, Will cannot judge if a kiss feels drastically more intimate than their eyes tangled together, than a hand on his shoulder, than the near involuntary way Hannibal would learn towards him as he spoke before, when he was a hot oil spit across the water of his own mind, as if tethered and drawn by the invisible cord of Will’s words. He can be drawn towards Will’s mouth in the same way, winched in by an intestinal fission low in the gut. Desire.
It takes very little to induce it. A slant of his face, an angling of his mouth. The most minute flicker of his tongue across his lower lip, and Hannibal is coming down deliberately, fightless, to imitate that physical gesture himself. Like he’s absorbed Will’s own affinity for performative mimicry. They’re past the flash of tail, past the initial sipping approach. Hannibal has emerged from the sleek of the current’s seam, struck the lure hard and swallowed—and the hook is worked deep in the bony crevice of his cheek.
Briefly, Will has to consider the legitimacy of it. If the bait is genuinely artificial, or if the fight is so easily won because the prey smells the flash of real hormonal urging that can only come from a truly organic bait. The consideration is short. Will already knows the answer. Hannibal does as well. Otherwise, he would taste Will’s false heart in his mouth. He’d smell it on him. They’re both adaptively aware of the state of the lie, but that isn’t where it lives.
Will smiles faintly against Hannibal’s kiss, and sets the hook harder with the barest parting of his mouth. Hannibal tastes clean, ozonic. Wonderful. When he draws away to turn back to the stove, Will interrupts the motion with a second press of their mouths together—this one short and sweetly misaligned.
He’d been in the middle of opening the wine. Will finishes it once the distraction is past, pulling the cork free with an audible ‘pop’ that alights in a physical flash of excitement down the center of his spine. The sound had never meant much to him before. Now, the association with Hannibal is impossible to ignore. Will brings the cork to his nose and breathes its smell in softly. “Disapproved of the wine in the basement, I guess.”
He’s never taken Hannibal to the bare-dirt cellar beneath his house, but they both know that doesn’t mean Hannibal hasn’t been there. It’s an amiably veiled accusation. Will assumes that Hannibal has seen the cases stored there. That Bâtard-Montrachet is the only wine Will buys, and one of his few significant monetary indulgences.
“Should I be offended?”
His tone is light, almost playful—accompanied by a quirk of one dark brow. Of course, a Chardonnay wouldn’t be an ideal pairing with the lambshank that Hannibal is currently turning delicately in a bath of butter and pomace on Will’s stovetop, in Will’s own cast-iron skillet. The one he uses to prepare the dogs’ food. Will withholds that information with another smothered smile, the sharp and nearly vindictive pleasure of it plain in his face. Even in play, Will both paints and passes the polite line. It’s the illusion of boundaries that excites them both. Leave my evasions alone, stay in the boundaries I’ve drawn. Laying them, erasing them. Easing gradually across them, like a kiss in the kitchen. Two kisses. The invisible invitation in Will’s loose posture for a third.
Play is the earliest origin of sadism in animals.
𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙿𝚁𝙴𝚂𝚂𝚄𝚁𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝚆𝙸𝙻𝙻’𝚂 𝙼𝙾𝚄𝚃𝙷 𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙶𝙴𝚁𝚂 𝙱𝚁𝙸𝙴𝙵𝙻𝚈, a phantom sensation that buzzes over hannibal’s lips and chin. that second contact between them is a punctuation of touch—a physical snatch at the last word—and amusement catches like kindling in the glassy depths of hannibal’s eyes. he regards will openly, observing with undisguised pleasure the restrained theatricality of his movements as he sets about uncorking the bottle of wine hannibal had brought, his actions showy in the way conscious competence often is.
without the haze of illness to muddle his composure, will is admirable in his precision and radiant in his depth. he has slipped past the iron bars of others’ expectations and continued the work that hannibal instigated, clawing his way out from beneath the soft loam of his self-imposed decency. where he emerges, the true shape of him is radiant and dark, like a rich walnut floor freed from the peeling linoleum beneath which it absconded.
and yet—not totally freed. the sharp, astringent scent of will’s aftershave burns bright in hannibal’s sinuses, soothed only slightly by the aromatic sweetness of browned onion and dusty saffron, the pungent warmth of thyme. in the ancient world, smell was seen as a uniquely incorruptible sense—a form of intuition superior to sight and sound. and by his smelling in awe of the lord, and not by what his eyes see, will he judge, and not by what his ears hear, will he decide. hannibal considers the old testament now, as will uncorks the wine and releases its spicy red-berry tang, which surges up and out of its smooth glass neck like incense released from the steady swing of a thurible.
there is a familiar and nearly welcome petulance to will’s obstinacy of fragrance—the same brand of delightful provocation that is evidenced in the accusation nestled between his words. in response, hannibal allows the apples of his cheeks to rise, lips twitching into an insinuation of a smile.
“spice is difficult to pair with wine,” he says, turning his attention fully back to will’s stove. a mediocre instrument, but one he handles without complaint; there is something of conquest in mastering this space, too. he smiles down at will’s cast-iron skillet and tilts it slightly, scraping a spoon through the sauce bubbling on its bottom so he can baste the lambshank he has just turned.
“a red côtes du rhône will be a far better complement than bâtard-montrachet—though it is otherwise an exceptional choice.”
hannibal sets the spoon down on the small dessert plate that is playing the role of spoonrest and wipes his hands neatly on the dish towel lying atop the counter. only then does he look back to will, brows lifted in a veneer of open placidity that is at odds with the glint in his eyes, the slight upward curl of his lips. will’s own expression is contrived much the same—it bears a keen yet muffled pleasure whose roots lies buried deep below the surface. twin souls, we two. to deceive and be deceived—it is a reciprocity that thrills them both. the question is simply: how deep do either of them intend to dig? which evasions will be allowed to sprout and which will compel them to pick up the spade?
hannibal tilts his chin to the side. he watches will for another moment, expression unreadable, before his gaze flicks down to the empty wine glasses on the counter. he picks them up, one stem held between the fingers of each hand, and crosses to will.
“this particular wine is a vinsobres,” he says, holding out one of the glasses so that will can begin to pour. even before will does so, without looking away from will’s face, hannibal envisions the constant stream of rich red liquid pooling in the bowl like blood. “one of seventeen rhône crus that meet the most demanding level of distinction and are thus allowed to be recognized by their village name alone.”
he glances down to the bottle in will’s hand, gaze lingering appreciatively on the matte, textured label and the confident spread of will’s fingers over it. the easy way the bottle fits in the cradle of his palm. “they are characterized by their freshness, and boast an exceptionally well-balanced palate. it will stand up nicely to the lamb’s complexity of flavor.”
9 PEOPLE TAG GAME - ANSWER THESE & TAG 9 PEOPLE YOU’D LIKE TO KNOW BETTER/CATCH UP WITH!
LAST SONG: “to travels and trunks” by hey marseilles
CURRENTLY READING: reading on earth we’re briefly gorgeous by ocean vuong and listening to the bell jar by sylvia plath. also i’m awful and stopped in the middle of speak of the devil: an anthology of demonology (edited by sterling north) and narrative of a journey to the shores of the polar sea, in the years 1819, 20, 21 and 22 (sir john franklin) but i haven’t picked those up in a while oops
CURRENTLY WATCHING: started a h.annibal rewatch and i guess i’ll be trying out cl.arice tonight although based on the reviews i’m not very hopeful
LAST MOVIE: the high note i think? watched it with my mother a little while ago and i don’t... think i’ve seen anything else since then...
CURRENTLY CRAVING: would kill for some real carbonara (no cream!!!!!!!)
TAGGED BY: @nezhnosts thank you! <3 TAGGING: @sanctamater, @tattlcrime, @roziver, @misidentity, @amorifer
will graham reconstructing crime scenes, imagining himself committing murder, waxing poetic about killers’ “savage delusions”
“this is my design”
