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[vylingas]

i've been rewatching hannibal and i've deciced that what hannibal does to will in s1 is just one big round of exposure therapy. tell me will are you afraid of losing yourself and becoming a killer???? well dr lecter can help u with that

[vylingas]

monstrilio.

dialogue prompts from monstrilio by gerardo sámano córdova.

you know how to love me the best.

i need to love someone who won't disintegrate.

why didn't you come back sooner?

extraordinary things happen everywhere, all the time.

maybe if i try hard enough, i can be everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

i know you think you're alone. that your grief is only your own.

you have no heart.

i need you to come back. i want you here.

god chooses who he cares for, and he didn't choose us.

god has too many rules, anyway. do you really want to follow so many rules?

i don't think we're ever too old for dancing.

i'll keep your secret for a week.

you have your anger, and i have mine.

i'm worried that i bore you.

i can't stay here by myself.

write yourself a new role.

i remember what loving you felt like.

i stopped missing you a while ago.

i was afraid of my loneliness.

i had two emotions: fear and anger.

it really doesn't matter if i love you or not.

what if love doesn't make you feel better?

i want to help you. like you helped me.

i would excel in a zombie apocalypse.

i hate talking to people i don't know.

just the person i wanted. it's like i summoned you.

maybe it's okay that we taste bitter to each other.

i thought this place was invincible.

let's get you some clothes.

i wanted tonight to be special.

if you love someone, you shouldn't want to change them.

it's good you're leaving. you're bigger than all of this. bigger than us.

i'll be okay? you promise?

how do you find these places?

even i am capable of getting over things.

thinking tires me out.

art has no answer, no right way to be.

what's more human than wanting to kiss someone?

isn't that what couples do, tell each other things? secrets?

why is it sometimes people don't do what they want to do?

you can tell me. i won't be mad.

i don't have the energy to be annoyed.

are you embarrassed of me?

how do you make sure people don't stop liking you?

i wish i smoked. i'd have something to do besides pace.

what is it you're so afraid to tell me?

it's hard to focus on one feeling.

i won't abandon you again.

when people don't understand you, you can say anything you want.

may i touch you?

there are no monsters in these shadows. only me.

the pills make me care less.

no more running away.

you don't have to worry anymore.

[vylingas]

Haven’t followed you in years, but to decided to randomly check the blog, as once upon a time you were one of my favourite writers, and the amount of detail, and genius level writing that I still see up to date is inspiring! Love your portrayal.

HELLO??? Ahhhh this made my day!! Pleaseee this is so unbelievably sweet? I'm honored you thought of me fondly enough to check my blog! I only popped on here again recently but it's impossible to stay away indefinitely when I have so many amazingly talented writing partners. Kissing you so hard, anon <3

[vylingas]

no offense, but i think you need professional help. / TESS SKSKSK

   Hannibal smiles as he tightens the strap securing Tess's right forearm to the chair. He cinches it at a tension that will cause her discomfort but not serious injury, as long as she has the foresight to stop her incessant wriggling. It's human nature to test one's restraints, but like an unruly puppy, Tess has exceeded the bounds of reason and gnaws defiantly at the bars of her cage, to equally unproductive effect.

   It's a shame, really, that they've come to this. For as gruff as she can be, Hannibal has come to enjoy the brief flashes he has been granted of Tess's company; if nothing else, she's proven to be quite a reliable distraction. Entertainment, he supposes, if he's going to be crude about it. He has no real interest in her beyond the superficial—the intrigue that clings to her is the same as that of a brightly colored moth. Something surprising and beautiful, a momentary curiosity that just as quickly overstays its welcome. Hannibal will keep Tess in his carefully crafted jar, will feed her sugar water and milkweed until he tires of the game and crushes her within the warm cradle of his palm. Until then, though, he looks forward to watching her throw herself against the glass.

   She makes quite the picture already, her dark brunette hair mussed artlessly around her face. Small clumps of it cling to the sweat beading on her skin, and Hannibal reaches out to tuck a few stray strands behind her ear. She jerks away before he can fully manage it.

   "Do you?" he asks, amusement thick in his voice. He picks up the syringe he had placed on the tray beside Tess's chair and checks the level, ensures the vial is free of air. "In that case, you'll be relieved to know I'm under the care of a very capable psychiatrist." Hannibal casts Tess a playful look, his lips tugging up into a smile. He can scent her excitement and agitation, her loathing a dense, bitter thing. Hardly any fear clings to her now, though Hannibal has not decided whether to admire or pity her for her bravery. He wonders whether she knows that he doesn't intend to kill her now or whether she has simply not grasped the severity of her situation.

   "Are you familiar with Dr. Du Maurier? I can't praise her highly enough." He flicks the syringe and, satisfied, eyes Tess's arm for a suitable vein. "Perhaps you'll get to meet her one day." Despite Tess's struggling, Hannibal lines the needle up and slips it smoothly in. "This will only hurt for a moment," he says as he depresses the plunger. "There we go. That's a good girl; try not to fight it."

out there.

[vylingas]

every once in a while i get the urge to revive my multi and then i have to take my own face between my hands and gently tell myself that i cannot keep up with even one (1) muse

[vylingas]

[vylingas]

MEA CULPA, MEA CULPA, MEA MAXIMÁ CULPA. nicolò di genova of the old guard franchise. mixed comic + film canon but primarily hc based. 21+ / sporadic activity / mutuals only. au verses available. written by charlie.

[vylingas]

HANNIBAL WAS NEVER GOING TO KILL ME. I'M HIS PATSY!

#HYPOCRATIC. independent writing account for frederick chilton from the show hannibal. some canon divergence. written by jordy.

[vylingas]

“ you have a way of promising things. ”

@cadisfly

   Sea salt licks the air that hovers over the open terrace, curling up from the water and settling against the villa's east-facing wall. If left untreated, its searing fingers will cause the paint to blister in no more than a few years' time. The wounds will need to be sanded down, the broken skin shorn off to ensure that the new finish will lie flat. To ensure that it will stick. Hannibal wonders idly whether he and Will will be here long enough to see the building reborn or whether they will have moved on by that time—perhaps even before the first imperfections show.

   He lifts his chin and draws the scent of the morning into his lungs, coating his soft palate with the thick brine of marine life and the filmy aftertaste of decomposition. It makes an interesting complement to the lemon tang of their sherry cobblers, which spit crisp-scented fizz from tall glasses dripping with condensation. A marvelous choice of cocktail, Hannibal reflects with pride; the citrus cuts delightfully through the viscous air, like stirring blood into melted chocolate.

   "'Suffer not thy mouth to cause thy flesh to sin,'" he recites. With the insinuation of a smile, he reaches out and twists a plump grape from the desiccated vine on his plate, relishing the wet snap that the fruit emits as he pries it from the half-eaten cluster.

   He would promise Will the world, should he feel it to be within his power. But the laws of nature bend to no man, and there are some feats that exceed even Hannibal's capabilities. Still, that loss doesn't weigh too heavily on him; he and Will can content themselves with the ache of old wounds, the easy peace of their seaside villa, and their oft-replenished storeroom.

   Hannibal rolls the grape between his fingers, holding his hand out in front of him so he can watch the neat pink scar on his wrist pucker and twist. Even now, the sight elicits something carnal in him. He places the grape in his mouth and tongues it to the side, nestling it between his teeth. He holds it there for a moment, cradling its smooth, round form between his molars, and then bites down, bursting the skin and splitting the flesh. Sour juice washes radiantly across his palate, and he exhales in pleasure, rolling his contented gaze back toward Will—knowing, playful. "Even God knew the importance of keeping one's word."

[vylingas]

god... been back on the dash with ryan for less than a day and i'm already going feral (/positive)

[vylingas]

out there.

dialogue prompts from out there: stories by kate folk.

i woke up and you were gone.

if it seems too good to be true, it probably is.

anything held too tightly will slip through your grasp like sand.

any interest in a weekend getaway?

i want you to talk about whatever you want.

why does this feel like therapy all of a sudden?

i'm not good at talking about feelings. it's just the way i was raised, i guess.

the only way to not hurt someone is to not love them enough.

death is just death, same as always.

i know it's terrible, but if i had to lose one parent to the void, it would definitely be my ___.

it must be nice to buy into a fairy tale.

are you sure you don't want a glass of water?

i can't even do one push-up.

i know you don't really believe that.

you always lie to placate me. to shut me up.

it's too late at night to be making phone calls.

you never tell me anything real.

i owe you an orgasm.

will you give us a smile?

i'm so sorry you've had to go through all that.

i'm just not strong enough to leave yet.

i didn't appreciate what i had with you. i didn't treat you well. i'm sorry.

i'm not as strong as i used to be.

i want to watch the sunset.

i'm only angry at myself for being so naïve.

hunters hunt. that's the way of things.

you're gonna get yourself killed.

no offense, but i think you need professional help.

you don't have to do anything you don't want to do.

can you open the door? i want to talk.

it's okay. i forgive you. i want to move on.

my little starfish.

go ahead and ignore me. you're good at that.

you told me you loved me.

you made me think i was crazy. like i imagined all of it.

don't be so corn-fed.

are you gonna ask me out on a date?

don't you have any other memories?

do you want to kiss me?

i would only like a chance to make it up to you.

do you understand that you're not a real person?

i'm sorry, i can't help you. please leave me alone.

i never wanted to hurt anyone. especially not you.

you can't help what you are. none of us can.

you don't know what it's like to have no one.

which memories do you want to forget?

i know the feeling of wanting a home to return to.

[vylingas]

uuuuu. i know i'm the worst rper ever i keep popping in and saying back and then leaving again fhfkdhgsd but. hi. (not making any promises)

[vylingas]

i can’t believe i literally have to,,, reblog this to reply to you since tumblr banned me from replying to posts and using my messenger but anyway hannib*lblanche forever they TRULY are the ideal

HUNTER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[vylingas]

“ i hope you come home, soon. ”

   The moon is swollen and hanging low in the sky, as though at any moment it might break through the thin, elastic stretch of night holding it aloft and sink down to rest gently against the earth. It is a particularly beautiful evening, and Hannibal spares a moment to appreciate Florence’s midnight splendor as he cradles his cell phone between his shoulder and his ear, smiling into the sinuous curl of Blanche’s voice.

   “I will.”

   There was a time not long ago when he had dared to imagine a night very much like this one. Those fantasies had featured the same thick navy sky, the same warm linalool- and limonene-scented air, but there had been a different voice pouring tender and ardent into his ear. A deeper tenor, sharper and slightly more bitter.

   Hannibal slides gloved fingers into the slit he created in the sternum of the man lying beneath him and curls them, pressing against muscle and bone. The body’s ribs are slippery with the last of its blood, and Hannibal's fingers slicken, slipping for a moment before he manages to grasp the man’s ribcage, which he cracks open like the tough shell of a nut. His mouth waters at the sight of the flesh waiting beneath, gaze landing on the thick red heart partially obscured by other gleaming organs, which glint in the moonlight like wet, open eyes.

   “Shouldn’t be long now,” he assures Blanche warmly as he sets about excavating his prize. He shuffles a little closer to the body, crouched and balancing on the balls of his feet to avoid kneeling on the blood-soaked ground and staining his trousers. “You'll like this one, I think—young and beautifully fresh.”

   The wet sounds of his work swell out into the night, likely bleeding through the phone speaker. He doubts Blanche will mind. If anything, it will be a reminder of her own fate—poignant and perhaps exhilarating, even. Hannibal has certainly found it to be so. The knowledge that their time together is limited has enabled him to enter their partnership with all the more passion, to cherish it as the ephemeral flash of opportunity that it is.

   Once he cuts the heart free, he sets it into a waiting nest of butcher's paper and begins to tidy up, gathering the various tools he used throughout the process as well as the jars of blood he filled for Blanche. She is likely waiting for him even now, freshly bathed and glowing like a moonstone set into the ornate facet of their apartment. Hannibal looks forward to returning to her and sinking back into their game, weaving false threads of reality about them shot through with truths, like a tapestry adorned with strings of gold.

   “Has your night been very dull without me?” He smiles fondly down at the corpse and rolls it, weighted down with stones, into the Arno River before him. It sinks quickly, soft burbles and the lick of water over it the only evidence it ever existed at all.

[vylingas]

“ tell me no. ”

   Hannibal has always found life to be most beautiful at its extremes. Tension is all the more compelling for the knowledge that it will, assuredly, snap; the question—the appeal—merely lies in uncovering the particulars. In being party to both journey and revelation, experiencing both in all their raw, unfettered glory. Hannibal may, at times, apply the requisite pressure to instigate such a change, but he has never scored a fault line of his own, only deepened those already there. There is no beauty in blunt reproduction, and machination is only rewarding when enacted in service of some greater, unpredictable outcome.

   He has been anticipating the arrival of this particular breaking point in Will for some time now. Already, he finds it well worth the wait.

  “Certain objects, once set into motion, can’t be easily halted.” He swallows deliberately and keeps his hands at his sides, his posture still; as he has been wont to, recently, he forfeits control to Will, curious how he will navigate their current circumstance.

   It’s dark in the office, and Will’s hair gleams in the firelight. His entire figure is licked with shades of orange and yellow that pour out from the hearth behind him, casting his face and the front of his body in shadows. A fallen angel, perhaps, or, to be more mundane, a man who has finally turned his face away from false light. Darkness becomes Will in more ways than one, making sinister the beautiful, chiseled lines of his face.

   Freddie Lounds and Randall Tier were fortunate to have beheld such radiance at the ends of their lives, though Hannibal doubts they fully appreciated the gift they were granted. He wonders vaguely how Will’s expression might have changed while he killed them. Did he wear the same menacing calm that lacquers him now? Or did his face twist with judgment? Exhilaration, perhaps?

   If only Hannibal could have born witness.

   He wets his lips. Will’s face hovers inches from his own, and he can feel his own breath reflected back against him, see his own desires shimmering behind Will’s eyes.

   His lips quirk into a teasing smile; saliva floods his mouth. “Would you prefer I deny you?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. The prospect is certainly appealing—to be once more on the receiving end of Will’s fury, with no barriers or bars between them. To force Will to either live with his hunger or punish Hannibal for it, to invite his rage to turn into desire. They both know that Hannibal welcomes his advances, just as Will welcomes Hannibal’s in return, though they speak of neither the advances nor the welcome. But there are battles to be fought still. There would be no artifice in whatever struggle may blossom tonight, only a carnal redirection.

   Hannibal’s fingers twitch with the desire to touch. To be touched. Will’s knuckles had been bloody when he returned with the body of Randall Tier, and Hannibal had felt then the same hunger he feels now. Had swelled with the same pride, the same yearning. The same need to devour and be devoured in return.

   “No animal has evolved beyond the appeal of shows of force.”

[vylingas]

crawled out of my grave to come on here and see what @nezhnosts and @cadisfly had to say about the downtown abbey red carpet footage of will and blanche and i see nothing. unlawful.

[vylingas]

i log on, i like nora’s post(s), i log off