Independent Will Graham RP Blog, Interpretation Of Both Television And Book Characterizations.

Which head or yours is doing the thinking right now?  The big one or the little one?

Try again.

You don’t.

Your standards were set when you displayed Randall as you did.

I’m not your standard, I’m your goal.

Lust burns inside you, I can hear it soaking your words.

Wax poetical about art, and Will would usually sink beneath the surface of an inward stream to drown you out.  But it was a curious sensation to have someone come so close to the mark; like his intentions were being torn out from within him and placed under a microscope.  He felt simultaneously exposed and invigorated.

“Schrodinger's Painting.  Well, hell...”  Will rubbed his lower lip with his middle finger to suppress a smile - unsuccessfully.

He took Dr. Lecter’s hand and shook it, let himself glimpse the man’s eyes; he was intrigued by the color, and memorized the points of light in them for later reference.  The rest was admiration, and then...not much before the veneer of polite social grace.  Very different...

“You certainly see a lot, doctor.”  He said,  “I’m Graham, Will.  I don’t know if you saw my name on the brochure...”  He turned back to his painting, then back to Dr. Lecter.  “This one’s actually mine.  I wanted to know what you saw; you seemed enamored.”

“Can’t say I’m disappointed.”  He let himself smile this time.

Never Paint Dreams or Nightmares │runsonfear

Hannibal looked over at the man who he instantly recognized to be Will Graham, he didn’t comment on the recognition.  

Looking back over at the painting and clearing his throat, he spoke.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything, does it?” He said with a small smile.

“Or it could mean everything. That’s what is so special about art. The artist’s intentions don’t matter when it hits the public’s eye. I could look at this and see nothing, while another man might look at be reminded of the tragic death of his children… and another might see, in it’s strokes, a vision of his own death, or future becoming. 

Every painting, despite the intentions, both simultaneously means everything and nothing at all. I would compare it to Schrodinger’s Cat… Or for this, Schrodinger’s Painting. 

But as far as intentions, I think it might be just that. The meaning is that there is no meaning, other than what we decide to project on to it, which is neither accurate nor inaccurate.”

His smile grew a bit wider and warmer as he held out his hand to the other man. 

“Dr. Hannibal Lecter.” He introduced.

Letting his finger be sucked into Hannibal’s mouth, it isn’t hard to imagine the same happening to his cock.  He rocks his hand forward, gently, to make Hannibal tilt his head back; his finger crooking to press into the soft muscle of Hannibal’s tongue.  When Hannibal finishes, Will watches the remaining glint on his upper lip.

“Good.”  He says, catching Hannibal’s chin in his hand.  He rubs that glint on Hannibal’s lip with his thumb.  It’s addictive, the way he can manipulate just this small part of Hannibal; the flesh pinking a little as he presses and pushes, feeling the teeth behind the lips.

Will leans in, just close enough that his breath puffs against Hannibal’s skin and he can see the distinct lines of color in Hannibal’s eyes.  His lips brush Hannibal’s slightly when he speaks: “Want some more?”

His hand moves to cup Hannibal’s neck, the base of his palm on the Adam’s apple.  He doesn’t apply any pressure, yet.

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

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

// u kno what’s cool?  messages about threads u like instead of rebloggin those threads bc it messes up my reblog counter

Will watches the flex and roll of Hannibal’s muscles for a few moments; the suggestion beneath his shirt, the tightening sinews of his arms.  He removes his own jacket, folding it over one of the kitchen stools.  Instead of rolling up his sleeves, he undoes the buttons of his shirt and discards it the same way; he stretches his arms, now feeling a little freer in just his undershirt.

“You think this’ll be enough, then?”  He stirs the chocolate with a wooden spoon, turning it over to keep the temperature even.  It occurs to him that, at a previous time and place in their lives, Will might have had an issue with Hannibal having an entire bowl of chocolate ready for this.  It also occurs to him that he is no longer the Will that would have that issue.

He dips his finger into the chocolate, about up to the second joint, covering it in thick syrup.  He walks over and brings the chocolate up to Hannibal’s lips.  “Tell me how it is.”

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

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

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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.”

Butterfly, 1942. From the Budapest Municipal Photography Company archive.

Will nodded, eyes pinned where Hannibal had them.  “Thank you.”

"I'm sorry."

“Are you, now?”  Maybe another glass in he’d have been more ready; but they were doing this now.  He downed what he had in his glass.