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[ilmstro]

whoops drak has reminded me of the no garlic and no silver rules and uh oh we’ve discovered that hannibal would actually be a Terrible vampire !!!

got 2 thinkin, what would happen if kira could turn hannibal?

nothing would change. literally, he’d just move his office hours from 5-9pm to 6-10pm and call it good.

[ilmstro]

Flowers in the Attic (1987) dir. by Jeffrey Bloom

[ilmstro]

got 2 thinkin, what would happen if kira could turn hannibal?

nothing would change. literally, he’d just move his office hours from 5-9pm to 6-10pm and call it good.

[ilmstro]

opheliaximmortal

There’s something quite endearing about the act of resting one’s head on another’s shoulder. Surprised by the sudden act of intimacy, Dr. Lecter raised a brow at it, but nothing more. Instead, he nodded his understanding.

“Your aunt was right to seek help for you. Were I to go by every textbook ever written, you are a classic cry for help. That sense of peace is the single biggest indicator for suicidality. The only way you could be more textbook is if you started giving away your prized possessions.” Despite the nature of the subject, Dr. Lecter seemed relatively full of mirth. Whatever amount of somber empathy may be expected from a therapist in this situation simple wasn’t there. “A demise at all seems unbecoming of the effort spent to get to this point, though. Why spend your life defying whatever cosmic plan God has for you only to give in at the end?

“I’m not interested in giving you a pep-talk, Mona. I’m not interested in admitting you to some wing of some mental ward that will keep you alive against your will. But I will say this: life is tiring. Life is pain. Life is constant, unending trauma until it isn’t. The knowledge that you could die at any given moment isn’t a prison, it’s the key to the prison doors of safety. What could possibly be done to you that hasn’t been done already? What pain could you face that is worse than what you’ve already felt? Choose to be galvanized or choose a disappointing end to a very interesting story.”

[ilmstro]

corvidamned​

Hannibal sleeps often without dreaming. He has a great propensity to dream -- a profoundly vivid imagination that brings forth an experience much more real that he imagines is the norm for dreams. Having built his own memory palace brick by brick, this is likely a feature of his own making, although he’d rather it wasn’t. On the contrary, he usually takes precautions to ensure his sleep is dreamless because, like the many trap doors on the floor of his mind, he often cannot control what he falls into.

Perhaps today, he’s been careless. Perhaps it’s the unique effects of sharing a bed with someone so agonizingly familiar. This morning, in the crisp cold light of breaking dawn, he lays on his side, back to Kira, between the silken sheets of his own bed. As she shifts and curls into him, the barest threads of wakefulness begin to show: a sharp intake of breath, a furrow of the brow. 

But he’s deep in one of the many oubliettes of his palace, trapped beneath countless layers of fascia and connective tissue and bone. There, underneath the beautiful recreations of Florentine churches and palazzos, Mischa waits for him in hidden groves of trees and in gardens surrounded by high stone courtyard walls. She waits for him wearing a wreath of aubergine blossoms, arms outstretched, sobbing as the soldiers pry her from his desperate grasp.

Her dark hair and pale, oval face. Her bright eyes that looked like polar opposites of Hannibal’s. Her flushed red lips that always looked rouged despite her young age and lack of makeup. She’s sitting in a metal basin and he blows bubbles at her from the palm of his hand as a servant washes her hair. She’s screaming in the darkness, begging in her strained, malformed sibilants to be spared. She’s not that sick. She’ll get better. Please, she’s scared. It hurts.

And, finally, the sight of her flesh, still juicy and rare, on one of his mother’s ruined dishes. All around the rim, little blue figures danced and pushed wooden carts and admired flowers, a frame that reminded him of home around a portrait of his dead sister as a hunk of meat. And he ate her, weeping. That flavor would follow him everywhere for the rest of his life -- the flavor of fear and pain and loneliness. It taints the meat, like carving too deep into a deer’s belly and puncturing the intestines.

Hannibal.

He wakes with a start, finally. His mouth is dry, but he can still feel blood trickling down the corners of his tight frown. Perhaps now, Kira has seen him express more emotion than ever before, his composure altogether gone. The physical contact between the two of them overwhelms, and he promptly turns onto his back and covers his face with both hands to catch his breath.

“Thank you.” He murmurs though his hands, eventually dragging them down his face and sighing a breath that returns him to his general air of calculative serenity. “Often, ghosts from the past demand much more than a pound of flesh. I’ll be fine.”

[ilmstro]

me, hopping on the ol hannibal blog to see whats shakin’: what’s this? drak tagged me in a new post? delightful lets see whats up ----- KIRA BOUTTA MEET MISCHA. EVERYONE. BATTEN DOWN THE HATCHES. A ROMANTIC INTEREST IS ABOUT 2 MEET MISCHA. SOUND THE ALARM. BUST OUT THE AUBERGINE. FREUD CAN COME TOO.

[ilmstro]

"One of these days you’re going to push so hard I won’t be able to pull myself back to you again."

Poor Will, always on the brink. It’s his own tragic heroism that makes his suffering so delicious, though. Had he a simple proclivity for killing or taking down killers, one without the other, he’d be so droll, so garden-variety. But as he is -- a tortured dialectic of human suffering -- he’s irreplaceable. A rare and beautiful treasure that only the foolish would let go.

“Partnerships are made of more than one gravitational force. If you can’t find your way back to me, then I’ll find my way back to you.”

“That’s a promise.”

One day, Graham will resent Hannibal for all he’s done. He’ll wish he hadn’t made that promise. But that’s a worry for the beaches of Marathon, Florida.

[ilmstro]

hannibal “ruins my own desk with sexy blood and hopes graham-senpai notices” lecter, everyone

[ilmstro]

corvidamned·

Pain and pleasure are so similar in the mind -- so closely linked that at times the human lens of perception can cloud itself enough to think one is the other and vice versa. Blood and tears aren’t so different from spittle and ejaculate. Dr. Lecter hovers in his place, swaying still as the pair of them still barely cling to the notion of a dance, and receives Kira’s little kiss as though he were on the brink of something, but holding back.

Because sharpening a sketching pencil is always more effective with a blade, he keeps one in his office -- a scalpel, capped with plastic in a little leather pouch in his desk drawer. If he cut her right now -- across the throat, too shallow to sever anything important -- would she begrudge him? Would she want him to linger there, licking her wounds?

How delightfully indulgent.

With one hand at the back of her thigh, he carries her weight with him to the edge of his desk, where from the drawer he pulls out the aforementioned scalpel and removes the cap with his teeth. For a moment, the blade hovers over the skin of her thigh, exposed by the slit in her dress. In that pause, he almost looks as though he’s allowing her a moment to collect herself or perhaps one final chance to back out -- but au contrare. The blade cuts expertly, deep enough to separate a few layers of superficial tissue -- not just an opening where red poured out but an envelope of white and yellow tissue that lets out a wide, thin gout of blood like a laurel.

The leather-bound surface of his office desk is instantly ruined. But as he takes a knee and drags his tongue up the length of that stream of her blood, it’s quite clear he takes little issue with that fact. He’ll replace it later. Hopefully his colleagues at the bureau will notice. 

[ilmstro]

Donn P. Crane (1878 - 1944) - Illustrations for Dante’s Divine Comedy

[ilmstro]

okay but in the gotham verse hannibal 100% ends up playing piano at the iceberg upon request and is known to be a very generous tipper to the staff when he dines there.

[ilmstro]

hannibal at 4am on a wednesday when he gets himself a looper pedal off amazon for the ol’ clavier and theremin

[ilmstro]

corvidamned​

In moments like these, Hannibal cannot escape the thought of Mischa. Had she lived, she might look just a bit older than Kira -- perhaps a bit shorter in stature, a bit rounder in the hips. Her hair would have been the same color, her eyes a similar hue, and her complexion would have been exactly the same. Picking up the subtle aroma of her arousal, he wonders if Mischa might have found herself aching for a man in a similar way. If he would have had the chance to help her find that man -- or perhaps even be that man for her himself. As she mentions blood’s ability to rebuild memory, he cannot help but wonder if it has the ability to rebuild from memory. What old magics surround this ancient predator? Could they bring back his beloved?

With one desperate hand on the edge of the trap door in his mind, Hannibal finally pulls himself out of the mental oubliette that is the thought of Mischa and leans in closer to Kira, his mouth hovering moments from her ear.

“And why would you want that, I wonder? Don’t you fear pain? A loss of control?”

[ilmstro]

WHAT TRAGIC CHARACTER FROM ANCIENT GREEK LITERATURE ARE YOU?

Medea

you are medea from from the argonautica by apollonius and medea by euripides. you are ambitious, ruthless, and unforgiving in getting what you want, and unapologetic in your self-preservation. the truth is, you have let your romantic ideals get the better of you before, and time and time again you have had to relearn how to build up those walls and thorns that guard it. the only person who can protect you is yourself, and you have learned that the hard way. sometimes stoking that fire of hate and anger in your heart hurts more than whatever you're fighting against.

Tagged by @the-arkham-librarian​​

Tagging: @laembless​ @blessedxsilence​ @intuitkiller​, & whoever else wants to!

[ilmstro]

Surgical Instruments

[ilmstro]

Cannibals - Sebastian Münster

[ilmstro]

opheliaximmortal·

Sitting at an angle that afforded him the ability to maintain a steady view of her, Dr. Lecter remained quite stoic as Mona eventually began to wilt from her stress and ease back against the bench. Breaking eye contact for a moment, he surveyed her general form -- her posture, her color, her weight -- as though looking for some flaw evident of her condition. Settling back on her face, he too eased back when he seemed to find some degree of knowledge in the sight of her.

“Our discussion has already diverged from how things usually go. No need to try to find our way back to the path of mundanity.” With a pause, the doctor crossed his legs at the knee and folded his hands in his lap, overcoat still draped over the bend in one elbow. Finally, he released her from the stranglehold of his gaze to regard the bees as well. “If you aren’t on the brink of a desperate outrage, then where are you? Certainly on the brink of something.”