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will twinkifiers piss me off im sorry. i will not be attacking anyone for it because duh but come on dude. we've SSEEN HIMMM (apologies for the boxers pic. he is a slut and only wears short sleeves when he's slutting out.)
"Didn't age perfectly but it's fine because you once looked like that" like excuse me if you want to blatantly hate on Hugh's appearance just say it?! And please don't come close.
I’ve experienced some not-fun and horribly rude comments about myself and my content in fandom spaces. It’s crazy that not even this be(Hugh)tiful man isn’t even immune to such venom. At least I know I’m in good company, but it kinda makes a girl wanna quit the Internet, going dark, ironically à la Mr. Dancy.
anon in my inbox said fanfic writers who wrote about dark and taboo topics were not “real writers” because of what they wrote about.
reblog if you believe anon is wrong and writers are writers, no matter what they write about. no matter how they portray these taboo topics.
reblog if you believe art can be about topics that are controversial, taboo or outright disturbing, and artists who create controversial, taboo or outright disturbing art are as valid as artists who create art of conservative values.
@magicomsworld prompted me to write something, and I had to oblige!
Nolan admits to Sam during a big case that he thinks someone is following him after court.
"Wait a minute, Nolan, are you okay? You look anxious, even for you," his junior partner, Samantha Maroun told him fondly, shaking her head, her dark hair tossed over her shoulders.
"Wait — since when do I look—" Nolan started, not realizing that he often had certain ticks that gave away his pre-trial jitters. He rolled his eyes. Now was not the time. He hurriedly set down the Chinese takeout that he'd gotten for the two of them to eat while doing trial prep, ripping apart his chopsticks with more force than necessary, the wood snapping. "No, no, Sam — listen," Nolan urged. "I think I'm being followed," Nolan confessed, glancing around to make sure none of the night cleaning crew heard him.
"Wait a minute, Nolan, are you okay? You look anxious, even for you," his junior partner, Samantha Maroun told him fondly, shaking her head, her dark hair tossed over her shoulders.
"Wait — since when do I look—" Nolan started, not realizing that he often had certain ticks that gave away his pre-trial jitters. He rolled his eyes. Now was not the time. He hurriedly set down the Chinese takeout that he'd gotten for the two of them to eat while doing trial prep, ripping apart his chopsticks with more force than necessary, the wood snapping. "No, no, Sam — listen," Nolan urged. "I think I'm being followed," Nolan confessed, glancing around to make sure none of the night cleaning crew heard him.
"Followed?" Maroun perked up instantly, leaning in closer, heading into Nolan's office and closing the door, her Beef and Broccoli forgotten. "By who? Did you get a look at them? We can call Brady or Riley and —" she rambled, already in a lawyer's problem-solving mode.
"No, no, Sam it's nothing like that," Nolan said. "I just have… like I have a feeling. A feeling that I'm being followed. I just felt, felt like someone was tailing me all the way back from the courthouse."
"Oh," Sam said, swallowing a chuckle. "A feeling, now that changes things," she said, unable to resist gently ribbing her coworker and friend. "What does that mean, Nolan? Like a spidey-sense or something?" she teased, laughing. Then she stopped herself, taking a sip of water, seeing Nolan's glassy ocean eyes filled with vulnerability.
"Wait, Nolan, you're really serious about this, aren't you?" she said, brown eyes softening with concern. "Do you think it has something to do with one of our cases? A witness? Someone who wants to prevent you from kickin' judicial ass?" she smirked.
"Somethin' like that," Nolan acknowledged, the compliment bringing him a small twitch of his lips. He sat, manspread in his office chair, picking at bits of General Tso's, careful to avoid splattering spicy sauce on his now rumpled white dress shirt. He yanked his tie loose, it now feeling claustrophobically tight, unbuttoning his top two buttons, tossing his tie over the visitor's chair. He didn't know why he was so upset about this, to the point that his stomach was roiling. Chinese takeout had completely lost its appeal. "I mean, there's the upcoming Sorensen trial, the Park case, and the witnesses for the Hocanson murders…" Price rattled off the lists of people he'd been recently associated with, he'd met with for witness prep, or would be facing on cross-examination.
"The Hocanson family had connections," Sam agreed. "Made enemies. Old money tends to do that," she pointed out. "With a case like that, all the press that it's been getting — all the press you've been getting?" she raised a perfect eyebrow. Nolan knew what she was getting at. There was a target on his back.
"Listen, Nolan, it's okay. Tomorrow we'll talk to Baxter, and Riley, and Connie, and the rest of the team at the precinct and we'll figure this out. Trial or your spidey-sense, you have to admit, they're good at their jobs and they can help."
"No, I don't wanna bother them," Nolan shook his head. "I'm just probably overreacting," he sighed. "The city's big. Lots of people coming and going, maybe I was just… being paranoid," he scoffed, going to his dusty bookshelf to find Jack McCoy's gift of a half-drunk bottle of Scotch. He poured himself two fingers, offering some to Sam, who shook her head.
"None for me, thanks," she told him politely, raising her Stanley cup instead. He gulped his drink with a shrug, feeling the warm burn down his throat and to his knotted insides.
"And you're not overreacting," Sam said. "Trust your gut, Nolan. The one that wins cases. The one that says you've been followed. We both know — you, certainly from experience — this job isn't for the faint of heart, and the city doesn't exactly scream safety when you try murderers on the daily," she reminded him. "And besides—" she added. "You'd do the same for them, if they asked, wouldn't you?"
Nolan's shoulders slumped in agreement.
"Hey—" Sam offered, seeing that Nolan was reluctant to leave and go home, as he paused, rearranging his pens and paperclips, long after the takeout boxes were in the trash, voir dire questions prepared. "Do you wanna stay at my place?" she asked softly. "On the futon. In my spare room," she clarified pointedly. "Next to my boxing bag and the treadmill I store my next day's skirt suit on," she said wryly. "It's not going to be the Ritz Carlton or anything, but… at least you won't be alone?" she said, nudging Nolan's shoulder gently. Nolan leaned against hers, grateful for the contact, the company.
"No, Sam, I couldn't — I couldn't impose," Nolan hedged.
"It's not an imposition," Sam promised Nolan gently. "It's giving my nosy neighbors in 4B new gossip fodder," she joked. "Should I get us a cab?" she asked, reaching for her coat. While Nolan got his tie, suit jacket, and coat, Sam walked down the courthouse steps and pressed 'Send.'
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There’s no shame in still sleeping with a teddy bear or plushie no matter how old you are. All that matters is that they provide comfort and security when you’re feeling low or even have a nightmare.
There is such a thing as an emotional support stuffed animal and you have nothing to be embarrassed. To your friend, she’s NOT alone.
this is true and all. but also never stop talking about your ship because if it’s what makes you happy then you can and should talk about it for yourself and your own enjoyment too.
there’s nothing wrong with the tweet in the screenshot, but I feel like we’ve forgotten that shipping and fandom are first and foremost for ourselves and our own enjoyment, not if the ship is popular or if there’re enough people shipping it.
just have fun. fandom and shipping is about yourself and your own enjoyment.
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(when you let Nolan Price have a Pretty Woman moment in your writing, you should post it.)
"We're just going for a little drive, Starshine," Nolan cooed, holding his hand, thumb rubbing soothing circular patterns into the skin in a soothing rhythm. He continued this easy silence, just holding Adam's hand, smirk on his face from knowing what was happening more than Adam did.
"Why are we at a high end menswear boutique that costs more than my monthly rent?" Adam blinked.
"I frequent many high-end establishments, campaign dinners, I'm on charity boards for the state of New York, the American Legal Society…" Nolan explained. If you're going to be my arm candy, sweet boy, then you've gotta look the part," Nolan explained, his croon dropping an octave. He sat down lazily on a chaise, and began flipping through some magazines and order catalogues before he was greeted by who Adam guessed was the owner of the shop. "Viktor," he greeted easily. "Still on parole, I see?" (Adam couldn't tell if they were joking or being serious.)
"This is Mr. Adam Raki," Nolan introduced him confidently, hand on the small of Adam's back to show propriety, but also to remind Adam he was safe amongst the bright lights of the boutique. "Have you ever seen a more handsome exhibit?" Nolan asked Viktor. "Right, I didn't think so, well. He and I are prepared to spend a gross amount of money in pursuit of his new wardrobe," Nolan explained, as if letting Viktor in on a little secret. "So do what ya gotta do, V, but make him feel at home. Start with measurements. Stick to linen blends, high thread counts, cashmere, merino wool, silk blends, you know the drill," Nolan ordered, lazily flicking his AmEx between two fingers.
"I don't really want to try new clothes that aren't what I usually buy… the textures are…" Adam was working up the courage to say bravely.
"Leave that to me," Nolan smirked again, a look of almost-pity in his eyes that the man had never felt cashmere. "If you spend enough money, itchy isn't a texture in the status quo," he grinned, reaching for an offered glass of wine.
The next several minutes (or were they hours?) flew by in a whirlwind of associates presenting options to Nolan for his approval, measuring every inch of Adam's body precisely, and different swatches and colors held up to match his eyes just so until Adam had an entire business smart and evening wardrobe courtesy of Nolan Horace Price.
"Okay, it seems like we're ready to head to the fitting room!" One of their salesgirls, Alaina chirped excitedly.
"No, ma'am, that won't be necessary," Nolan said decisively.
"Box it up; have it delivered to my apartment. I'm still in the penthouse suite; you know the one. We won't be trying anything on. I assume you ladies do still know how to measure and that the in-house tailor did as I asked?" he teased Viktor, pointedly stilling his flipping his Amex in his fingers.
"Good. Then send it."
Nolan looked at Adam. "You are tired. You're overwhelmed and overstimulated. You need a shower, I prescribe a perfect 102 degrees, some dinner, and a sweet glass of Riesling so smooth you'll forget you're drinking wine. The clothes will be at my apartment," he said, signing his signature on the receipt. "Come," he said, putting his hand in the small of Adam's back. "To the car with you, Starshine," he said, shouldering the door of the boutique open, starting his car for the drive home.
Nolan opened Adam's car door, and waited until he was seated properly, buckling the seatbelt. He didn't reach across the console for his hand, but instead, tucked his warm fingers against the tense knot at the nape of Adam's neck, massaging with gentle pressure until they reached the gates of Nolan's TriBeCa apartment. Nolan led him into the elevator and up to the penthouse suite of his gorgeous modern space, complete with (Adam almost melted) floor to ceiling windows in the spacious living area.
If anyone knew that there was a time for words, and time for silence. A time to pause and a time to act, it was Nolan Horace Price. He took Adam's face in his hands, thumbs stilling their rhythmic movement, and he pulled him forward until their lips met.
The kiss wasn't chaste. It wasn't proper. It wasn't even suited for a first-date. It was a clash of teeth and tongue and saltwater tears, as Nolan's mouth explored Adam's, in earnest until it was absolutely necessary to come up for air. It wasn't awkward, it wasn't unpleasant… it was… it was emotional. Full. Pleading doe him to understand — to see. See what Nolan was trying to say with action, and not with a speech filled with legalese. Finally, breathless, Nolan pulled away.
"A lot of things disappoint me," Nolan started, licking his lips, blinking away the steam from his eyes, breaking the trail of saliva between the two men's mouths. "Judges disappoint me. Juries disappoint me, when they come back into that box and deliver a shitty verdict. My boss disappoints me when he gets caught up in campaigning. Mostly, I disappoint myself when I just can't make everybody see…" Nolan sighed, shaking his head, running a hand through his perfectly gelled, slicked-back hair.
"But you?" Nolan said, leaning back so he could see Adam's full face, yet not letting go of his face. "You, you beautiful, earnest, bright, gorgeous creature?" He blinked again. "You could never disappoint me," he whispered, his voice wavery and filled with conviction.
"And I'll bullshit a detective. I'll schmooze a judge. I'll lie to my boss about a fucking deadline or something," he told Adam seriously. "But this… this I'm promising you," he said. "You can't disappoint me, Starshine."
Dudes. Ladies. Gentlemen. Humans. If you claim to be in a fandom, and yet, you only write your original character and that's it, just... don't claim you're in the fandom.
You like your OC. You, my friend, are fandomless and like a universe. It's false advertising to be like, "I love [insert fandom here]! But also, I don't play anyone from said fandom," and what it does is create false expectations and doesn't accurately portray who you are as an author. We have words for accuracy.
Original characters are awesome. Self-inserts are awesome, too. Ships. Universes. But to be a fan of something, one has to create within the fandom.
This awesome human posted this in their advert:
"I usually roleplay with OCs but if we're doing a fandom roleplay then it's usually OCxOC in the fandom setting..." And if you said that = so golden.
"I still don't understand why we have to stop in the middle of butt-fucking nowhere," Will groaned, unbuckling his seatbelt.
"It's North Baltimore, William," Hannibal said calmly, putting the car in park at the convenience center rest stop. "I find it apt. A reminder of our old lives and a… celebration…” he struggled: "of our new one."
"Yeah, livin' the dream: on the run in Bumfuckia," Will rolled his eyes. "But with you," he said on a long-suffering sigh, "it's tolerable, I guess. Truck stop clothes, shower flip flops, deep fried… questionable food that's weirder than what I've ever eaten at one of your dinner parties," he mumbled, adjusting his dark black ball cap over his eyes so he could go in and pay for the gas they needed.
"Are you saying you appreciate my company, William?" Hannibal asked. "I'm quite flattered, really, considering you tried to kill me," he told him matter-of-factly.
Will capped the gas tank, went in and gave the attendant cash, dumping the change in the grimy plastic cup next to the register. He came back out.
"You were saying, darling?" Hannibal asked innocently, letting his sunglasses fall below his hazel eyes to see Will more clearly. He somehow sensed that this moment held gravitas. He adjusted his leather jacket once so the shoulder seams were pristine, showing off his lean, yet chiseled, muscular physique.
"I'm saying…" Will tried again. "Marry me, you pretentious bastard," he ordered, more clearly this time. "White wedding and waistcoats, and cummerbunds and all of that shit. Winston wearing a collar made out of flowers and Buster terrorizing the guests," he planned, getting lost in the dream of marrying this enigmatic, charming, intelligent man.
"It would be my honor, Will," Hannibal whispered, breathless, giving the man a chaste kiss. "My absolute deepest pleasure."
"I take it that means 'yes,' then," Will replied, deepening the kiss until tongues and teeth were involved, tasting the faint cheap alcohol that was gas station wine on his now fiancé's tongue. Will eased the jacket off of Hannibal's shoulders and pushed open the backseat door of their lived-in van.
They were making out like high schoolers, fogging up the windows, but Will Graham didn't give a fuck. Even the well-mannered doctor didn't seem to mind, Will's breath hot on his ear, stubble rasping at his sculpted cheekbone.
When they finally parted, both panting, saliva slick on lips, clothes wrinkled and askew, Will cleared his throat again. "I… picked this up from one of those damned quarter machines. Took me $7.75, but I finally got the ones I wanted," he scowled, popping open two plastic egg that came out of kid's toy machines. The rest were buried under paper towels in the men's room. Inside the eggs he kept were matching simple metal bands, black, with silver on the outside — paint that would surely scratch and ruin within the week. But they were proper wedding bands.
He slipped the ring, which, by some miracle of God, or Satan, or the spirit of killer cannibals, fit Hannibal's fourth finger. He then slid the companion onto his own, sealing the deal with another heated kiss. "Proceed to the route," his phone announced cheerfully. "Vegas is thirty hours from here, Doctor," he grinned, all teeth. "Let's get out of here, Elvis is waiting."
"Oh dear God," Hannibal groaned, face in his hands. He'd rather die than get married to his beloved in a Vegas chapel. But of course he knew that Will knew this. He kissed him again, aware of the affectionate tease. "Tuxedos, my love," he ordered. "Three buttons. White shirts, of course…"
"Shut up and kiss me, you bastard," Will said, swallowing his outfit recommendations with tongue, putting the van in drive. "We've got a fugitive act to keep up," he grinned.
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Will Graham flicked off his white, slightly damp undershirt and tossed it somewhere in the vicinity of the laundry hamper, nearly avoiding stepping on a sleeping terrier-mix. A squeal and a string of curses followed: "Fuck, sorry!" he mumbled with an apologetic ear-scratch.
It was like a fly. A perfectly knotted lure. Eye-catching. Colorful. Bait. He glanced at his reflection in the mirror, splashing water on his face. "Alright, Graham. Shower, shave…" he rustled in the medicine cabinet drawer: Sculpting Hair Mousse. "This shit," he scoffed, setting it down next to his aftershave on the sink, knocking the bottle over with shaking hands. "For fuck's sake," he muttered, causing Winston to pace the bathroom mat between the tub and the toilet, sensing Will's nerves.
He turned on the taps and stepped in before the water was even hot, scrubbing with a little too much gusto, rehearsing what he was going to say. "Hello, Dr. Lecter." No, the pretentious bastard would like pleasantries too much. Just get to the point, Graham. "We need to talk." No, what was he, his high school crush? Not that.
"I have to deal with you…"
He turned off the taps, drying off. Still damp, he padded to his bedroom closet, pulling the single bulb string. "Bait," he whispered, flipping through the clothes, the word feeling foreign and a little bitter on his tongue. Acrid.
He sniffed the worn, dusty-salmon colored shirt, shaking out the wrinkles, judging whether or not it passed muster with some wrinkle-release. It still smelled faintly of latex and hospital-grade antiseptic from when he'd worn it with Abigail. It wasn't plaid and didn't have lure snags. Passable.
He sprayed it with the wrinkle releaser spray and threw it over his head, buttoning the buttons, but leaving the top two undone to look a little bit more effortless. He knew what he was doing. Mostly.
Returning to the mirror, he combed through his damp hair robotically before applying the hair mousse and parting it just so. A rebellious curl escaped the product's hold, falling across his forehead. "God dammit," Will muttered, combing his hair again, keeping everything in place. He went for his jacket and scarf, glancing at himself in the hall mirror. "Fuck," he said, fixing the bastard curl again.
It was time to make his way to Baltimore through the late evening traffic. Hannibal would keep his slot free. It didn't take a damn empath to know that. He eyed himself in the rearview as he drove, ocean eyes reflecting off of the passing headlights and billboards. "I have to deal with you… and…" What to call it. How in the hell to phrase whatever had gone down between him and Hannibal.
Will pulled into an empty spot on the street outside of Hannibal's office. That pretentious asshole, he probably — Will caught a glimpse of himself in one of the decorative mirrors in the waiting room. He turned and stood to fully face it, opposite the patient entrance. The fuckin' curl just… Maybe his sculpting shit was expired. He tried to fix it, and it sprung right back across his forehead, as if it were trip-wired to his groin at the thought of seeing Dr. Lecter again.
"Ah fuck it," Will said, turning around just as the doorknob turned.
"Good evening, Will."
Lookin' for a Roleplay Partner-Person... and Also Kurt Schmid, if he's there.
Hi. I'm Cru. I'm 32F and live in the US. But I'm also chronically ill, so I kind of live on a 24-hour sleep schedule, like an infant. Or a night-walker. Or something. So, point of all that was, don't let your time zone stop ya. Let something else. I'd prefer my partner be 25+ but 18+ upon talking and vibing is always a possibility!
⭒ tags:
🔥🔪🕊️ (However, all are subject to discussion.)
⭒Preferred Sex Pairing M⭒M or F⭒M
⭒ Hannibal and the Hannibal Extended Universe. Nolan Price from 'Law & Order' and Kurt Schmid from 'Black Hawk Down' are my favorites, but I'm familiar with many, if not most of the characters, and would always be down to watch more media.
Character type pairings OC ⭒ CC (subject to discussion and willing to double)
Hi, I'm Cru. Again. Cru rhymes with Hugh. I adore the Hannibal Extended Universe, and Kurt and Nolan, as mentioned. I would love writing a variety of Hannigram plots, discussed with a partner, or Original Characters, or something from the Extended Universe, though I don't really like a lot of the traditional pairings, be warned.
I also met Mads and Hugh in 2024, and Hugh touched my shoulder and I shook Mads' hand, and I didn't even stress-poop, so there's that....
Discord: Cru04
The Roleplay // Fandom Communities have been kickin' my tush lately, so please, Tumblr, I'm begging you — restore my faith in humanity. Because I'm sobbing, and we can't all cry as prettily as Hugh Dancy.
izzy806
kianamaiart
pixelskylines
