"Just Once? I Never Pegged You For A Quitter, Dr. Lecter."

// *remembers*

Who rps Will Graham these days??

The problem with art, Will always thought, is that the success of any artist is based entirely upon being the taste of another person.  Being another person’s taste, then, falls into a category of whimsy that either lasts for an eternity, or fizzles and dies in the wink of an eye.

Will didn’t know if he was the eternal kind or the fizzling kind.  What he did know was the feeling of dry paint under his fingernails and the smell of linseed oil and turpentine.  He knew that when he looked at a canvas, something had to claw its way up and out of him to fill it.  What that something was he wasn’t always sure.

Art shows always put Will on edge.  Being so close to the consumer body - that fickle animal whose hunger was the fashion and whose purse was the grace - was a risk to the art.  Once a person meets the artist, no longer does the person see the Art, but the product of the artist.  It kills separation.  Without separation, there is no perspective.

This was the idea behind his latest piece.  It had no name - the wall bore no plaque next to it.  People always try to place meaning in a name to place meaning in a painting.  To place meaning into no meaning at all.  Will wanted to break rules; confound them at the most basic level.

Will stood by the refreshments table, fingers tapping gently against his plastic wine cup.  There was one man standing in front of that new painting, Will saw, staring like a love-struck child into the brushstrokes.  Will wondered what he must be getting from it.

He took a deep drink of the wine and walked up next to this ‘fan.’  He peered at his own painting - a mimic of the casual observer.  In that north-east kind of hum-haw, he asked: “What do you think it means?”

Never Paint Dreams or Nightmares │runsonfear

“A painter should begin every canvas with a wash of black, because all things in nature are dark except where exposed by the light.”  -Leonardo da Vinci

   An art show, showcasing the most popular up and coming artists from all over the world. Names like Yamashita,  Grzanka, Parla, Harvey and among them Graham. Hannibal was here for Will Graham.

 Graham owned a rather small website with a short bio and a couple of his works, but despite his skimpy upkeep of his website, Graham was an immensely popular artist. Magazines and fanpages raved about him, yet getting an interview with him seemed rare if not impossible. Having just poked around his website for a few moments, Hannibal was captivated. He had to meet this man, and discovering his presence at a upcoming art show was just the chance he needed.

Hannibal walked around the art show,with a glass of red wine in his hand, casually admiring works of others. He didn’t need to actively seek out Will Graham, he had a feeling he would run in to him. 

He came upon one of Will’s paintings, beautiful as all his others. He wondered what inspired this particular piece. Lecter looked for a plate naming the painting but, unlike the other paintings, there was none. Ceased looking, Hannibal sipped his wine and closed his eyes. Tasting the wine, he imagined he was tasting the colors of Graham’s paintings, finding the flavor and passion and muse. He imagined that every intricate stroke carried an almost sensual intimacy, not dissimilar to how Hannibal himself created his masterpieces.

Will outright grinned.  There is a certain flavor of satisfaction that comes from being the first to do anything for someone.  Having this would be another link in the gold chain of his mind, tying together the various impressions he had of the man in front of him.

“I think you will,” he said, fingers working to unclasp the belt and slip it out from its loops.  “And I’ll start slow.  Make it last as long as it needs to.”  The leather was tough and smooth in his palm.  Folding it once, he gave one soft smack of it against his palm.  He folded it one more time and did it again, this time satisfied with the sharp, tight sound he got.

Standing up to full height again, he unzipped Hannibal’s pants and slipped his fingers down to palm the hard girth there.  He wanted to feel it before he saw it:

“Well, shit, Dr. Lecter,” he murmured, “not bad at all.”

He continued to stroke, lightly, as he continued:  “I need you to pick a word.  Any word you like, but it’s got to be short and easy to remember.”  Absently, he slid the belt gently up and down Hannibal’s thigh, his back, up under his chin.  “Anytime you want me to stop, use that word.  I’ll stop no matter what, alright?”

He nipped at his new lover’s jaw while his mind whirred over a myriad of possibilities; some included the belt, the counter, the chocolate, and the hours left to them in the night.  “What’s your word, Hannibal?”

// if u wanna // [runsonfear]: "I assume this is a food."

“You’re not hesitating are you? I assure you, it’s delicious.”

stop having casual sex with men

WILL GRAHAM Hannibal • The Great Red Dragon

[text]: I counted it, like a normal, sober human.

[text]: "Maybe" ??

[text]: Haha, no.

// i s2g this website is shit for sending asks and if i've just sent this to you multiple times i am so sorry // [runsonfear]: ⁇

“⁇” for a drunk text.

[text] Willl

[text] Wil

[text] Wiilll

[text] Willlllll

[text] It is impo ssible to count how many ls are in your name if i accidentally use more than 2

[text] Willllll

[text] How many wasa that?

[text] we don’t know.

“Hard to imagine you getting into many fights, Doctor. Just how bad was 'very bad?'"

56, 57, 84

Nsfw asks

56. Do you tuck your penis a certain way (i.e. left or right) when you get dressed?  “Always to the left.”

57. Do you have or want any genital piercings? Do you like any on other people?  “No, and not generally. Although this one time..”

84. Have you ever had any genital injuries?“Yes. A few times. Generally from fights. It was only ever once a very bad injury.” 

These Days, (I seem to think a lot about the things that I forgot to do)

@drhanniballecter

The gaps in Garrett Jacob Hobbs’s form draw his eye.  Phone number, no address.  Oh, you overdid it, my man, he thinks, too damn neat.  A neat and tidy sonofabitch— and you knew it, didn’t you?  He asks the woman at the desk to sign off on the files as he slips the form back into it’s folder and tucks it under his arm.  The phone number sticks blue to the back of his eyelids.

moths are gothic butterflies <3