o p


lecter meme: scenes 7/10 

"she was not my child, but she was my charge. she taught me so much about myself. her name was mischa. she’s dead."


The most fun a poor art history major can have without selling their soul for the ability to travel the world. 

Google maps lets you go in places now: Musee d’Orsay, The Met, Versailles, all of the places above, and tons more. I am pleased. 



uh-huh, honey

i’m just gonna go die from the awesomeness of this, in the corner over there


This is gonna be me

you are supposed to be my paddle,
I am.


What can’t you repress, Hannibal?


He-Ate-Us Meme:
[1/3] LocationsHannibal’s Home

What? Yeah. YEAH. It’s motorcycle fic. As though you didn’t see it coming.


The wind whips in his face, cutting at this speed, the landscape blurred away to nothing. However many miles per hour they’re going, it’s enough to stop the thinking. Even just for this heartbeat of space, suspended in nothingness. The beach houses blur by as they pass, whirl, whirlwind, whatever it is they’re doing, little, lost, places, that might be home to ghosts if Will stopped to peer at them long enough, laughing faces that turn to drip blood, the flash of a fluffy tail, but there’s no stopping to be had. No pausing, most especially no looking, not clearly, and the houses blow away before he can see them at all, see beyond the fragile formations in his mind that try to linger but find no steady ground as the currents hiss them away, leave them mangled in their wake as they tumble forward.

The roads here are empty, and they have no fear of the law, one way or the other. Fugitives on the run as they are, what’s a traffic violation in the face of that, he laughs, a low, hollow, empty, noise, but the sound dies on his throat, no words here, in this space, invisible claws snatching them away, nothing but the way his hair tangles around him, the fierce burn in his throat, the tears in his eyes that are nothing but physical. It’s pure sensation, but all of his sensory organs are muted, injected straight to the core of him where he can do nothing but let it have its way as it rips past his skin. Which, he supposes, is the point of this bike, the rationale to dragging Will onto it when the convolutions of his brain threaten to choke him and the air turns to blood on his body, drips scarlet down his throat and threatens to suffocate him. He grouses, pulled onto the creature of smoke and metal, but in truth, he craves it, to let his body untangle itself, blow away with everything else as he gives in. Everything lost, no matter how hard his fingers latch onto it, no matter how his nails dig, or the pain it breaks in him to have it torn away.


Everything except Hannibal, the heat of him, of those terrible muscles, the contained awesome force of a monster, solid enough not to whirled away by the tumult. Solid enough to withstand anything, to stay behind Will and hold him. Even against the cold of the air, he blazes. The quiet hum from his lips that Will can’t hear but senses, only Hannibal real to him, here, anywhere, only that, as Will’s arms tangle around his neck and their lips meet, lost together, nothing more than a formation of cells uncoalesced, two constellations, halved, and pieced together, primal and ancient, meeting as the ocean laps at the shore and they fly away.

They’ll have to land eventually, can’t stay suspended forever in this vertigo, but for the moment, the flush of Hannibal’s cheek against him, the howling of the wind in his ear, this is enough.

~rebloggles again~ :3