The Kitchen is Always Open

21+ rp blog of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, M.D. Influences from Book/Film/TV Series implied

[il-mostrc]

𝕚𝕝-𝕞𝕠𝕤𝕥𝕣𝕔 : is an indie, selective &. private rp blog for Dr. Hannibal Lecter and the media that follows it. Gore and adult themes will be present. 21+ only. Dash only.

"𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔇𝔢𝔳𝔦𝔩 𝔦𝔰 𝔦𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔇𝔢𝔱𝔞𝔦𝔩𝔰"

highly intelligent and cultured, with refined tastes and impeccable manners. he prefers to 'eat the rude' when it comes to cannibalistic qualities. he is a highly acclaimed former surgeon and psychiatrist who is an FBI consultant and profiler for serial killers.

Verses include: Western, Supernatural, Post-apocalyptic, The Boys, Resident Evil, Priest & more!

RULES & VERSES ON CARRD - Updated 5/18/26 - New Verses

STARTER CALL | HEADCANONS | MEMES | OPEN STARTERS

𝔒𝔫 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔐𝔢𝔫𝔲: @/stingslikeabee, @/monsterxmade, @/a-ofspades, @/popularmxnster, @/kxllerblond, @/tooth--ache, @/leonkennedy9642, @/corxner

𝔈𝔵𝔠𝔩𝔲𝔰𝔦𝔳𝔢 ℭ𝔬𝔲𝔯𝔰𝔢: @/stagborne

[il-mostrc]

Monday work helper helperson.

[corxner]

Faust would hope so. For the doctor's own good. It's a good trait to have when one is able to distinguish what to share and what to take to the grave. He supposed the stag won't be having this doctor as a gift any time soon. So far, the young man didn't particularly find Hannibal annoying enough to keep away from his sight. He barely ever spoke to anyone else in town unless strictly necessary.

He's happy about the subject change, a small tilt of his head, not in question but simply in thought. There were many things that's ripe for the picking at the moment, if you knew where and how to look. “Many wild mushrooms are in season right now. I've seen many Chanterelles and Trumpets. Chicken of the Woods as well, I planned to go gather them today” he shared, quite passionate about foraging it seemed. “Curly docks..wild onions, chickweed— greens are not that available during this time of year. I've been eyeing some black walnuts however. It's not too far into the pines, if you'd like to gather some yourself ”

Hm. Curious that his psychiatrist's friends had not gone missing yet if they did go into the pines. Perhaps the stag only made its appearance known at sunset and dark of the night? Or perhaps they had made friends with it just as Faust did. He didn't enjoy that thought much. “I hope they're not going into the woods late into the night. Who knows what could happen” Faust commented.

[il-mostrc]

Hannibal kept his expression stoic, though something warmer moved beneath it. A small warning that would have been written off as some friendly concern by a stranger. Though Hannibal knew why Faust had said such a thing. He walked with the creature of the night, the one that sent small children in their beds to shiver after a firm warning from their parents. “Do you think I’d be in danger if I did?” A smile surfaced, guileless enough. “I suppose I do have the look of a city slicker about me. Which makes me curious…how does someone come to know the woods the way you do? By season, no less.”

Hannibal could construct a fine meal out of different ingredients. Walnuts were among his preferred ingredients gathered by hand, worked into a pie whose recipe the local diner had once begged him for. They had never quite replicated it.

“I have a fondness for mushrooms and walnuts. The diner carries one of my recipes, in fact.” A shadow of the real thing. “I may have to bake you one. Consider it a small welcome to town.”

[stagborne]

He watches him in a way that mirrors, half-expectant for the beast to stand tall and maul him with whatever was left of his strength before stumbling back to recover in their mingled blood. Will would die, and the monster? He would lick his wound in a home he didn’t belong in, that didn’t resemble him. Will would understand if he did. It would have been the most self-preserving thing to do, the naturalism of order restored, completely plausible– survival was ingrained in all of them, Will’s own wrongness never more evident in his ability to deny his own. These monsters didn’t make his skin crawl. He has built oceans, all sorts of partitions, entire fucking continents between him and his associations. For such a long time, they had merely been human-shaped.  The other was no more monstrous than Will’s own treacherous desires. It’s no surprise he doesn’t condemn the other for things he cannot change, things granted to him by his unchanging environment.

Stray dogs that bite. Broken, wounded people just as wrong as Will was. Wounded, dangerous creatures, he carries home despite knowing they would bring insurmountable difficulties to his life. They all led to the same inevitable fate. 

He doesn’t speak as he finally moves, pushing himself from the corner he has occupied. Perhaps his movements are slower, more for show than usual. Slow enough, it doesn’t spark a defensive or fearful reaction from the creature. His movements don’t hide anything either; deception left at the doorstep of the cabin alongside something else he doesn’t have the name for, he wouldn’t defend or preserve anything for himself. He doesn’t need to. The fire is prodded with the fire poker, pushing flat pieces of wood across the bottom of the brick fireplace, greatly diminishing the heat until eventually the ash consumes it all. It would die out, and the cabin would be overcome with the chill of winter. 

He knows it doesn’t make sense, and in many ways, Will doesn’t need it to. He doesn’t offer an explanation, doesn’t want to, and in the end, he’s under no illusion that the creature would behave in any other way than he is programmed to. Bequeathed to circumstance and its nature. It was in its nature to try to kill Will. He only hoped it didn’t. 

Being within reach is another thing entirely as Will produces a few items from the kitchen. A basin, surgical tools he’s used to reset his dog's leg once when it stepped into a bear trap, or when he had been snagged by a blade during a particularly brutal assault with something not so human, and finally, a few clean bandages. He bends, blue eyes tucked away beneath a veil of brown curly hair, and he’s silent as he works, too. He digs around, indifferent to the yielding discolored skin, blood oozing from the wound, coating the tips of his fingers, and surging for what was left of the silver. He flushes it with water, basin pooling with the heaviness of much too dark blood, concentration etched across his forehead. 

“Do you have a name?” He asks like his hand wasn’t submerged in a wound, fishing out something Will’s own kind had caused. “Mine is Will.” All things considered he’s a good fisherman as he frees another bit of silver, floating it in the porcelain bowl of water.

[il-mostrc]

Despite the jagged burn of torn flesh and the cold numb of silver coursing through his veins, he knows he still has the power to hurl this man into the splintered wall like ragged cloth. Or to use one of his claws to slash the other’s neck, watch as he bleeds out on the floor. He also knows that this wouldn’t save his life if he chose to end the other. There were hunters out there now, searching the woods, oblivious to their comrade who stowed the quarry within these cabin walls. He watches him prepare his tools and dowsing the fire. For a fleeting moment, ash lingers in the air before giving way to the fresh bite of winter seeping through weathered cracks.

Already he feels a bit of relief with it. The cold brings some comfort; a deep breath in this confined space finally eases out in ragged exhales. He can feel that each time he moves the pieces shift inside him. Those broken bullets siphoning the strength he tries to muster in shifting his slouching position upwards, folding his formidable frame into something almost human-sized. Hunger gnaws at him, a hollow ache beneath knife-sharp ribs. The silver’s poison steals his force, shrinking him toward starvation’s threshold.

Had any of this hunter’s kin mentioned the uniqueness of the beast they were hunting? How consuming human flesh make them grow in size but also become insatiable? He does not stir, even under Will’s precaution of moving slowly about the cabin and towards him. He listens as the basin is placed on the floor and the trickling of water as the wound is flushed. A low clink echoes, a piece of silver fished out carefully and when probing fingers seek deeper foreign matter hidden beneath torn skin, his hands involuntarily grip tight against surging pain.

When Will offers his name, he hesitates. “You couldn’t possibly pronounce it in your tongue.” He says, pausing for some in thought. Will wasn’t ending him with one blow, nor was he making sniping remarks. Because he was known for being a beast, he didn’t have to perform like one. “Ąžuolas,’ there was a lowering of his eyes to observe Will’s work on his wound, “You can call me Ąžuolas.” It wasn't his ancient name, rather one he knew Will would be able to deal with. Another slight flinch when he feels a pinch, the last of the silver plummeting into the growing dark water of the basin.

He feels the poison drain from his flesh even as he senses it pulsing in the basin’s depths. An alien magnet drawing at him, like Superman and the Kryptonite trapped below. Yet for this moment, as the cabin’s cold wraps around him, Ąžuolas allows himself to simply breathe.

[minaharkerdailymirror]

So no force feeding then. And he was right, she could starve. She'd gone hungry before, and it got dire before. But starving would make her weak, it would make it harder to flee when she did get out of here. Mina didn't want to serve in the house but she certainly wasn't going to die in it either.

"Could whittle them down," she smiled innocently, but there was such a wicked gleam in her eye, "Who would tell? More food for them, yeah? Who are they gonna tattle tale to? The great vampire commune? Will you be getting Vampire ASBOs?"

He called them a precious commodity and she scoffed, "Not precious enough to let some heads roll and preserve those precious commodities."

He wasn't giving her a number, he knew her game. This would be difficult.

Mina's stomach growled at the smell of food, You had to be careful with cooking in the wild. Cook early enough in the day so the vampires, bounty hunters and other creepy crawlies didn't smell the smoke and know someone was nearby to hunt.

Mina took in the humans cooking, her expression didn't change, but she was certainly uncomfortable, "So, how does it normally go? Locked in my room until you break me and then I join the service line?"

She couldn't imagine he'd be letting her have full run of the house. Not when there were so many delectable weapons to use.

"I'm better at repairing things."

Which was the truth. But so many weapons to be had in that.

One of the humans came forward, with some stew in a bowl, "Will you two be eating in the dining room?"

[il-mostrc]

These humans who were in the kitchen had adapted to their surroundings, chopping, stirring, laughing softly at something Hannibal couldn’t hear. A few of them even looked happy. He watched Mina clock this. “For now, you’ll be closely watched. All of these were in the same setup you were in once upon a time.” The woman who offered their sitting arrangements gave a smile. “They have full reign of everything. I met the love of my life here. We have a child now.” It almost sounded rehearsed. Almost.

“We’ll take it in the dining room, thank you Aisha.” Hannibal said, knowing he wouldn’t be eating it but he would enjoy watching her do so. The dining room held a long dark table, the kind built for occasions. Hannibal chose the seat directly across from Mina and watched the bowl get placed in front of her. “Enjoy.” She said with that same smile she had used when describing a short glimpse of her life.

“Sounds all superficial, doesn’t it?” He leaned back in his chair. Too good to be true. He could see it written across Mina’s face before she said anything. “I am doubtful that anyone would join you in a rebellion, if you are thinking it.”

[stingslikeabee]

A profound, rather solemn nod was given by the witch to confirm Hannibal's suspicions. Yes, that was the case of many of Jericho's residents, unseen by the average normal human but so easy to communicate with when an outcast like Melissa was on the receiving end. Her smile lingered, appearing somewhat pleased - the priest was correct in his assumptions, as he often was about many things. Father Lecter was a brilliant man and it had been very refreshing to learn so much for him - Melissa did not think that opportunity would present itself again considering the historic divergences between their faiths.

But their connection was not one-sided; the witch merely chuckled in a lighthearted manner, not at all offended by the ideas or beliefs that Hannibal nurtured about her kind. At her side, the pumpkin soup simmered softly, the aroma of the vegetable becoming increasingly entrancing for a hungry soul like the exhausted priest following his demanding day at work.

"Not at all times - but yes, we do have a very ancient grimoire that has been in the family for generations. It is a gorgeous item, to be honest; many witches before me added their own spells or recorded their thoughts. It is one of my most prized treasures - shared with my twin sister, of course."

Melissa moved again, slowly finding her way around Hannibal's kitchen to fetch a pair of bowls and gingerly serve the soup, but not before she sampled her own cooking with an humming sound of approval. The brunette picked a couple of spoons from the drawer, handing Hannibal his dinner and finding a chair to claim for herself, ready to join the priest for the last meal of their day.

"Bon appétit," she said in perfect French, but not yet digging in. Melissa's honeyed eyes observed him for a moment, as if taking Hannibal's figure again in that unique condition where he looked both priest and common man, the symbol of his faith something so utterly fascinating to see when it was cast away.

"Would you like to come visit? I know I have been imposing on your hospitality, but I would be more than glad to have you over at the Addams manor," she suggested, quietly studying Hannibal's expression to that offer. "My brother-in-law and sister would be delighted to have you and I could show you a day in my life, if you would be interested."

Melissa moved her right hand then, the spoon diving into the creamy, orange-colored soup. But before she retrieved it, there was one additional note on her part. "You could visit at the next rainy, stormy night. A lovely occasion for witchcraft, of course."

[il-mostrc]

He would very much like to see this grimoire. He imagines it to be thick with an equally thick cover, touched by generations. Oh the stories it held just within the material would have been a fascinating thing to witness. A smile sweeps across his face as he dips his chin for a small nod. “I would very much enjoy that.” He wonders what his clergy would think if he ever stepped into a house that was marked ‘nonredeemable’ by them. With a gentle clatter, the soup was placed on the table, and he took up his spoon to delve into its smooth, creamy depths. If fall bore a fragrance, it would saturate his kitchen in just this aroma, a smell forever entwined with autumn itself. Its flavor was an echo of fall’s memory when leaves turned amber and ochre like the velvety liquid before making their final tumble earthward.

“It’s divine,” he remarked with warmth after savoring a mouthful, for indeed it was. After an exhausting day there was nothing better than to fill the stomach with warm, comforting food. Such hospitality could easily become part of his routine, having meals prepared for him rather than arriving alone to cook for himself. Not that he’d ever complain; cooking brought him joy too. “I owe you one,” he said with another spoonful being lifted before being consumed. He would gladly create a meal for her.

She had been his most gracious acquaintance since he alighted in this eccentric town, and curiosity nudged him about whether her family shared this spirit of welcome. “I suspect your family might be equally intriguing. They wouldn’t mind hosting a priest?” The question arose out of necessity as he’d encountered many who reviled what he represented. It came as no surprise when churches judged impulsively without discerning whether they cast their stones. Hannibal had always given people a chance. More often than anything, those who found the butcher block claimed to follow the very same book he brings with him during his exorcisms.

[il-mostrc]

@vvcsker // semi-plotted

The new facility was quieter than the last. More discreet, as Umbrella preferred to describe it but it held a greater number of subjects, which was the only metric that mattered to him. He had heard about Wesker, but like much of Umbrella’s work it was under restrictive files. Dr. Lecter was a chief researcher in his field and with it came the perks of knowledge and the others behind the Umbrella legacy.

Wesker just so happened to be one of the elites to respect, and falling under to be his superior, he made it his business to soak up all that was available for him to know. He was well known in the Umbrella community; he was a leader and a formidable opponent if squared up against. Many fell to his intimidation tactics. Hannibal was not one to be intimidated.

Hannibal straightened his tie in the corridor outside the office door, more out of habit than necessity, and went in. He felt it imperative that he establish a good foundation however. And so, he entered with a straight spine and an offering hand towards him. “Dr. Hannibal Lecter. I’ve been stationed here under you. I hope we can establish some groundwork for Umbrella.”

Keep it corporate. In truth, he had no particular feeling about Umbrella’s ascent or its politics. He enjoyed the work he performed; it kept the days interesting. Unlike most around him, he wasn’t as power hungry as the upper staffers. If The Connections or any other outfit offered him a quieter laboratory and fewer bureaucratic delays, he would make that transition without sentiment. Loyalty was a leash, and he had never worn one.

For now, he would do his duty and continue his work for a higher intelligence in the growing BOW operative.

[corxner]

Faust held his breath once the other started to move. It was way faster than he would have expected, even from a mystical creature such as Ąžuolas. He didn't even bother keeping his eyes open, he wouldn't be able to see anything nonetheless, and so focused on the body he pressed against and that hold Ąžuolas had on him. It felt- comforting.

Once the stag slowed down, the young man finally felt safe enough to pull back ever so slightly to give attention to his surroundings. He wondered how a humid cave of all places would be keeping him safe from hypothermia until he saw the hot spring within it. He took his time checking out the abandoned camp, curious about those who were once here. Dead, he reckoned. And not recent. He swore his heart felt extremely full when Ąžuolas made it known that he was the first one here. Pride? Perhaps.

Eventually there were nothing else to check out except for the spring itself. “This place is nice,” he commented, definitely somewhere he'd be staying over often if he were to know of its existence prior. Faust proceeded to take off his shoes and socks, as well as folding up his pants up above his knees before sitting down by the spring. The butcher scars are present here too. His ankles, his knees— precise and surgical. Made by someone with steady hands, the tools and knowledge.

He made sure to dip his toes in first to check the temperature, flinching at the heat- but eventually dipping his legs into it. It really helped the soreness in his muscles- even with just this, he didn't feel as cold anymore. “Are we sleeping here for the night?”

[il-mostrc]

The cavern walls harbored the same vein of minerals as the entrance, but here the lamp caught them differently. Whole shelves of glittering mass erupting from the rock face, throwing back a light that nearly matched the cold gleam of Ąžuolas’ eyes. They reflected near cat-like, holding a glow that was always noticed through the windows of peering children towards the woods. He gave a nod of his head in response to the question. “This cave has been abandoned for years. The last known hunters made their headquarters in it. Since then, they retreated to safer grounds.” Away from the town as well. “A few of their old weapons are still here.” Scattered across the natural shelf of rock were old coffee mugs, rusted canisters, the black ring of a long-dead fire was on the cave floor. “The natural spring never dries up and always stays warm.”

A waterfall was heard deeper into the cavern, a small stream acting as breadcrumbs to its location. “I have never ventured farther than the wide basin where the stream empties.” He assumes it was a lengthy cave, eventually breaking out onto the cliffside for a breathtaking view of the mountain valley spreading out below it.

His gaze dropped to Faust’s legs and the raised scar tissue on them. It grants a narrowing of his eyes. “Each time I see you I notice more scars.” History written in flesh, and rewritten, and written again. Despite his breadth, his movements as he nestled closer carried an unlikely quietness, the grace of something large that had learned long ago how to move without disturbing the world around it.

[rocktheholygrail]

Hannibal (2013-2015)

3x07 || 3x13

[stagborne]

Will hated it for a long time-- that thrill that lives under his skin, a mirroring excitement from the pursuit; only Will chased his until the moment he chose to pause, the neck of all his guilt hanging in his hand, wrangled and bloodied. The pulsing in his head was so loud he thought it might never stop ringing. He despised giving in to it. Of turning it all back to deafening silence.

“I do not think you are impatient.” How could he? The other was meticulous and patient as hell. Far more than anyone else he has ever known. Far better than he could ever be. He never pretended otherwise.

Will thrashes once, then twice, trying to find a point of unbalance he could exploit. Finding none in the immovable form of the other. There is only steel-gray in his gaze, eyes following the motion of his mouth. His hands clutch at Hannibal’s shirt in a tight fist. His heart hammers like quick, skipping stones.

He could, if he really tried. He could spit right on Hannibal’s honesty, but he lacks the malice. His anger is largely superficial, all circumstantial of a shot nervous system. And Will feels similarly, to some degree, that there is a belonging there. Will to Hannibal, Hannibal to Will. Free to do as he pleased in that moment, fight rearing its ugly little head back in and propelling him into a struggle. But he isn’t pushing him away; he’s pulling him closer, inch by dread inch, until Will can find his mouth with his own. He bites him for good measure, teeth sinking and punishing, before they ease up, mouth pressing on the corners of Hannibal’s.

Hannibal merely touched like he knew it would be tolerated.

[il-mostrc]

This entire experiment was designed to see how Will would respond, among other things. Hannibal knew that being cooped up in such an area all winter long made for frustrations to run high. He wanted Will to have an outlet; an eruption of raw emotion delivered in the form of a clenched fist against flesh. If it would unburden Will’s mind, Hannibal was more than willing to play the victim. There was a curiosity, as there often is, with Hannibal’s motives.

Now he could feel the coarse weave of his linen shirt stretch taut under Will’s fingers. The fabric strained across his shoulder blades, the threads quivering as Will’s grip tightened, pulling him closer until their chests were nearly glued together. Hannibal braced for impact, coiling every muscle as if expecting a punch to explode against his jaw. His eyelids fluttered shut a fraction only to open and find no fist reared back, but Will’s head inclining toward him.

And he felt it. Not the sharp pain of bone hitting cheekbone. He had hoped Will wouldn’t aim for his nose, though he would take the impact if needed. Instead, he felt warmth on his lips, the slight scratching of facial hair rubbing against his skin.

The tenseness melts from his muscles; those shoulders that were preparing to embrace a hard impact suddenly fell. He does feel a sting though, Will’s mouth closing hard on his bottom lip, pulling at it between his teeth until Hannibal feels the skin split open. The muscles of his face involuntarily flinch at the feel of it. Surprise flared through Hannibal’s veins, setting every nerve alight. He can never quite know which path Will would choose. Hannibal couldn’t be prouder of that fact.

He can feel the slice on his lip, the warmth of blood as it starts to travel down the creases of his bottom lip. It pools underneath his tongue and he presses it forward to taste it fully. His hand goes to Will’s throat then, not squeezing but gripping hard enough to feel the pulse just underneath of it hammering away. He tilts Will’s head back with the grip of it, angles him, and presses back into his mouth, chasing the sting of his own split lip against Will’s teeth, his tongue pushing past them until Will opens for him with a rough exhale through his nose.

He moves then, his mouth dragging down from Will’s jaw, teeth grazing along the tendon of his neck, lips finding the pulse point he’d felt hammering under his palm and sucking at it hard enough to pull the blood to the surface. A sharp inhale of air; he breathes him in again, knees pressing into Will’s sides. The composure he’s known for dwindles, all from that initiation Will created.

[eladead]

R☆ckstar☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆: Hannibal's blood serves an overture to a hungering vampire, leaving him with a tongue flickering across his lips. His prowling eyes consider a mortal man as he stands: pristine and impenetrable, despite how pliantly his skin gives. Lestat could take his head and suckle on the bits of severed flesh, holding the chilling face like a crown. He could devour him whole, but an appetizer ripples emotions through the vampire that are enough to keep him in this high. He is intrigued. It's visible in the way his mouth stretches while distance grows between them. It takes a seasoned monster not to pounce. Lestat wishes he could forego all relationships built on this trust alone. His band prays that at night the vampire doesn't bite their ears off. In turn, he saves them from being charged with a multitude of felonies.

The chess pieces dance. Lestat hums, tugging the Doctor along without holding onto his collar or a mere button. The allure of the otherworldly is a promise to peer into a Void and have it bats its eyelashes back. But an uncanny pair? Lestat is not going to tell his band that he has a busy weekend with a cannibal. He is going to announce his departure when he is arriving in his limousine, shoving the door open with the sole of his boot, and knocking on the door to gain access to what most humans would call a nightmare. Grotesque and gaudy.

Each nod of Hannibal's head is answered by a mirroring rhythmic lift of a marble chin. Lestat cants his head backward, dragging his upper teeth against the inside of his bottom lip. The named years sing to him. "Ah-hah, aaaa-haah, mmhm," he checks each era with a bursting memory. What a precise offer. He can even imagine where he was during these times. Lestat snickers. "A masquerade. Are you hosting just for me?" To play dress up to a massacre is a vampire's delight, especially for someone like Lestat. He shimmies his shoulders with giddy anticipation, at once lighting up with ideas. He can be someone else for that night, a character who arrives from a nowhere, carrying nothing, but becoming an everything. With bated breath, he widens his mascara-lined eyes. His darkened eyelashes sparkle with hints of glitter. "I can't wait." Lestat's voice pitches; it's like he figured out there is a secret birthday party.

He watches the obscured wound and the fabric dampening from excess. His stomach twists pleasantly, asking the vampire to sink his teeth into a twist. "I propose an exchange, Doctor." Lestat suddenly sparks with an idea, just before he chooses to take his leave. "This dinner party of yours as a lead, I can't help but return the favor. Mine is less-" he vaguely gestures with the tip of his nose while rotating his head clockwise. "-scripted." The corner of his lips refrain from collapsing. He pats his pocket, anticipating stuffing a groupie with joy to carry it into his own blood. "A raw demonstration." His eyebrows quirk up. "I'm getting tired of Go-Gurt blood packs and Biggest Fan arteries. My tour will be done by then. Ah, and there is a matter of a movie." A bit of disjointed information as Lestat jumps from topic to topic, sprinkling in solutions to any scheduling conflicts.

"Christine," he offers suddenly. "My lawyer. Brilliant thing. Will cover all expenses. Which means, really, I will, but she's like a Founding Mother with the legalalese. Hah, I love it." He hits at the bodies on the hinted hunt. "Ever the foundationalist, but I digress," another glance at Hannibal's hand ends with Lestat's audible sigh. He catches himself craving it.

"I think," he strikes a proud pose with his nose pointed up to meet Hannibal's gaze at a playful angle. His hands rest on his hips, fingers toying with the silver chain attached to the belt loops. "I will arrive to your dinner as myself." He does not elaborate, but his smile is enough to reveal his plot.

[il-mostrc]

To arrive at his planned dinner party as himself made Hannibal smile a bit. No matter what mask Lestat elected to wear that evening, Hannibal knew the performance would be unforgettable. Forever to file it into a room of his mind palace if he ever got caught and thrown into confinement in an attempt to make him rot with his solitude. He was quite used to it. Not that solitude frightened him; he was intimate with its contours. It was only that Lestat proved far more compelling to hunt than to hoard.

Perhaps it was this very quality, the theatrical magnetism that had won Lestat so many devotees. Hannibal’s ‘peers’ could say the same. They were both men around whom others gathered like moths, craving revelation. Though Hannibal liked to think he exercised a subtler allure.

“I look forward to your grand entrance.” Oh how his dinner mates would too. Some might not recognize him, for Lestat doesn’t necessarily fit into the category of an object they kept in conversation. But there was one thing that Lestat had that they had all gravitated to their whole life: money. Money has a scent, after all, and these people had spent their lives following its trail. Lestat has plenty who bow at his feet. There is a part of him that hopes his blood is rich enough to entice him to break away from whatever glamorous chaos currently occupies his schedule.

Glitter sparkles along his skin whenever he shifts his head towards the light. The eyeliner exacerbates his already bright eyes. Hannibal’s fingers twitched with the impulse to ruin that perfect line, to smudge the dark pigment until it streaked like a tear. How fascinating he would look unraveled. “I am also interested in seeing your projects… even one of your concerts.” Hannibal offered, though he had never sought out Lestat’s music, nor paid attention to the rumors that swirled in his wake. Lestat entered his office and was himself, flamboyance and all.

Hannibal opened the door, granting him exit. There was much yet to prepare before this man would walk into his kitchen, and the true evening could begin. To befriend such a creature was not without risk. If anything about their association could be called friendship. The same could be said of anyone who drew close to Hannibal.

But what is life without a little risk?

[corxner]

“It's possible if you give me a chance.” This young man is both very brave and a fool (mostly for Ąžuolas, evidently), quite determined to have this creature that's doubled his height and able to brush his bones to dust to take him, his devotion and admiration seriously. Or perhaps the fact that he's still alive here and sitting in the creature's lap was enough prove that the stag enjoyed his presence to let him loiter this close. Faust huffed at the laugh, endeared at the sound but felt like he's not being taken seriously.

The young man thought the stag was about to order him to leave once the sun had set, only to be surprised by the words that followed next. He held on tight, fearing he might fall if Ąžuolas were to move a tad bit too fast.

“Where are we going?”

[il-mostrc]

“A place where you won’t get hypothermia.” To any witness of this odd scene, it would appear as if some blackened creature had absconded with its prey, except this prey hung limp and unresisting, and Ąžuolas had a feeling that he never would fight back. The trees blurred past as he ran through the undergrowth, one arm wrapped around Faust, dead leaves and snapping branches swallowed behind them. It wasn’t long before the tree line broke against a jutting cliff face and the low dark mouth of a cave. He angled himself sideways to squeeze through, Faust’s weight shifting against him.

The cave’s walls were dotted with small glittering rocks; minerals ran deep along with the remnants of volcanic rock. It felt humid the deeper he traveled until the narrow passage until it opened up to a cavern. Somewhere in the dark, water dripped in a slow and patient rhythm into a thermal spring, steam rising off its surface in slow coils. A hunter’s lamp sat on a natural shelf of rock where he had left it.

“This was used by others that harmed me before I relinquished it.” In the far corner sat a wooden box, its lid shut over tools Ąžuolas did not touch unless he had to. Bedrolls had been spread across the flatter stretches of ground, and crude tables still stood where their previous owners had left them. He lowered himself until Faust’s feet found the ground, then crossed to the lamp and turned the flame up until the cavern walls swam with warm light.

“You are the first person I have brought here.” If Faust wished to feel special, it would be written in those words.

[corxner]

Are you looking for a religion?

Faust lingered. Pressing his nose some more against the other's palm, letting the coldness of it soothe his skin.

He was unsure of what kind of answer to give. He's never been a religious man; especially after being marked and cut like a livestock from someone who supposedly loved him— that oughta messed his view on how love and devotion should be displayed. He doubted any kind of Gods existed. No one helped him, not that he is as aware of. Prayers go on deaf ears, he reckoned, if something above them really existed out there, then they're only watching over them for entertainment and not care.

But would Hannibal be different?

He realized that his devotion to the stag on its own was already a worship. But love in general is one, is it not? The thought of taking care of Ąžuolas' altar wasn't really unwelcomed. “My... Mentor, failed me. Those I considered friends, too, but it was mostly due to my naivety,” words flowed so simply around his Ąžuolas, his hand, ungloved, ran over the meticulous scars over his wrists, then his arm. Another kind of fidgeting as he searched for the words.

“There are so many layers to humans. Ones I can see through now. There's honesty in you I don't see from them. It's... Comforting. Even if that honesty were to be you feasting on me.” Faust knew that the answer probably wasn't enough. But it was more than evident as to how much the boy struggled to put his trauma and feelings into words. It's easier to ignore them than face them, after all. There's a kind of tiredness in him that buried deep within his marrow, something sleep won't ease it out.

Before long, Faust found himself settled on the creature's lap. Weirdly comfortable despite it's stature— perhaps it's due to the meal he had brought Ąžuolas previously that made it more.. holdable. “Is me bringing you dinner a troubling matter to you?” he chuckled, leaning his head against Hannibal's abdomen and looked up to the antlered creature. “I want to feed you. But you won't have me, and I don't think normal meals suffice. How would you recommend I go about courting you?”

[il-mostrc]

In a way, Hannibal could relate to this poor creature. There is a sense of loneliness when you don’t believe you belong with humanity. At times, he diverted his existence to being a creature of the woods. There was no need to follow the rules of humanity there; he was a beast, an animal, following the natural instinct of one. It was all too easy to get lost in that thought process, to let instinct take over. Ąžuolas based its existence on primal urges. Ąžuolas knew nothing else, no guilt, no justification, only the clean arithmetic of hunger and survival. It wasn’t any wonder why Faust chose to enter the woods now, where the scent of the earth was far more comforting than anything else the town had to offer. Perhaps he was turning into a fae and, in time, the urge to become what Ąžuolas was.

There was a halt in his thoughts, broken away by what Faust had said. “Courting?” The word surfaced in him strangely, and a laugh followed that resonated deep in his chest. “There is no courting a beast.” Faust did not see him as a monster; that word was dropped from their conversations. Replaced by something Hannibal had not yet found a name for. Beautiful, Faust had implied. He let that sit. “I think you’re doing fine with the amount of time you spend in the woods.” With him. The sun had slipped behind the mountains, and the temperature dropped immediately. The cold came off the ground as much as the air.

“You’ll freeze before long.” He considered what he was about to offer. The smell of blood still threaded through the nearby undergrowth, faint but unmistakable to him. “I’ll show you somewhere safe.” He guided Faust’s hands up and around his neck and held them there. They were about to travel.

Fast.

[corxner]

“It's stressful work, but without it my days feel rather boring,” Faust admitted. His work was one that couldn't avoid stress even if one tried their hardest. Faust welcomed it. It made his brain busy and kept the horrors at bay. Made everything more manageable when he had things to think about. He was never safe when it was too quiet.

“This whole thing was actually suggested by my old psychiatrist.. but as you can see, I can't really keep at it very well” Faust didn't seem like he could care less, however. He was ready to go right back to the city and pretend the attempt at following good advice wasn't in vain. But now that he had met the stag? He'll play around in this town a little longer.

“Do you not enjoy your work despite the stress that it could bring you?”

[il-mostrc]

Another psychiatrist? Interesting. Hannibal made a mental note of that. He was always curious about different approaches. He even butted heads with some of his colleagues at times. He found these disagreements nourishing rather than tiresome. Hannibal pauses on the question; nothing truly gave him any stress. “I’m sure that is true for a lot of people. I am a rather stress free individual.” He feared nearly nothing, other than perhaps the voices that echoed in his mind palace from time to time. When the nights grew particularly long, the woods were far too quiet for a racing mind. Another similar vein he shared with Faust.

Hannibal was unaware of how much Faust was going to induce stress on him later on. When the woods adopted him and he chose to enter willingly despite the dangers that dwell. “I hope you can relieve some of the stress here at least.” A hand was brought up to gesture in the very office they sat in. “You are welcome to disclose anything that is sitting heavy on your shoulders.”

[stagborne]

The concern with Hannibal was that Will consistently felt vulnerable. It was not something he could really describe either if he sought to. Hannibal could not readily predict him at all times; otherwise, he would not do things to see how Will might respond. His curiosity eliminated whatever omniscience could be presumed. Will truthfully didn’t know what scared him most about the situation. Whether it was Hannibal, how he might be capable of disassembling Will one day- or if it was merely himself he was alarmed by. He didn’t worry about his own physical well-being. It wasn’t that sort of fear. Only the one that came with needing or wanting someone so entirely; he wasn’t sure which, not certain the distinction would change the outcome.

How would he?

A neat little chunk politely squared from him? Slicing him open and fishing an organ out? Will doesn’t know. Doesn’t really want to think about that scenario. It brought undue stress. His silence answers it well enough; he would do whatever is necessary to make a last supper of it. And he’s easily enough diverted from his thoughts. Awareness slips away just for a second before it’s returned with the tightening of Hannibal’s fingers, mind churning to a deadlock after a moment. A part of him is torn between permitting himself to be manhandled because, frankly, he didn’t care about the destination. He would proceed wherever Hannibal led them. But in the end, it’s hard to fend off instinct. Vulnerable, perhaps, but not helpless. Never that.

He pulled from him, arms flailing and grabbing at the other’s, clutching roughly at his forearms as he drove his heel hard into the crook of Hannibal’s knee. The man’s balance dissolved enough for Will to shove as the hardwood floor rushed up to meet them. He spitefully hoped it bruised. He drove right down on the center of the other’s chest, hand dwelling as blunt nails excavate, & eyes narrowing.

“You’re getting brash.” As if this was not how Hannibal had always been to some degree. Will merely evaded, keenly conscious of the fact he also didn’t mind how Hannibal handled him either.

[il-mostrc]

While Will has trouble imagining such a scenario where he’s consuming Hannibal, despite what that beautiful mind could envision with other situations, Hannibal has absolutely no qualms with envisioning himself consuming Will. He knows it would only happen in dire circumstances. He often wonders if he could even survive without Will now. The last act he could do to honor him would be to devour and then, politely leave the earth to spare him the void that would nestle into the chambers of his heart. Hannibal wants to pull from him that instinct. He had always enjoyed violence. Was it a thrill? He’s not quite sure himself. His heart rate never went above an average range when he did manage to commit murder of any kind.

It was Will alone that made his heart rate rise however. He enjoyed it. This was a thrill. He had never fought Will squarely like this. There was training in his kicks and the impact on the floor swept the breath out of him. “Brash.” The word left his mouth breathless before a smile sliced into it. “You mistake appetite for impatience, Will.” His hands move to the curve of Will’s hips. Not to throw him, to map him. Thumbs pressing just above the bone. “I have waited a long time for you touch me with intent.”

His eyes watch for Will’s reaction before he throws out his next line. “You cannot bruise what I have already offered.” He had already surrendered to Will completely. He was giving Will permission to be violent while reminding him it changes nothing. Hannibal has already decided he belongs to Will and by extension, that Will belongs to him. He shifted, a roll of his hips that reversed their positions, pinning Will beneath him without seeming to fight for it. Weight settled. He looked down with a lingering grin. “Though you are welcome to try.”

[ofrequiem]

             there  was  a  small  pause  as  she  took  in  his  words,  her  face  slowly  morphing  into  a  genuine  smile  as  he  complimented  her  and  her  outlook  on  life.  it  was  rather  embarrassing  to  have  to  someone  get  so  philosophical  on  her,  but  at  least  that  was  the  worst  of  it. 

she  couldn't  meet  his  eyes  because  of  being  flustered  -  it  was  never  something  she  was  good  at  anyway.  but  she  followed  his  gaze  outside  where  the  sun  was  fighting  past  the  clouds  and  breaking  up  the  rain.  it  would  end  soon,  hopefully.  powerful  rain  storms  never  seemed  to  last  all  that  long.  coming  and  going  as  they  wished,  free  to  move  on  to  the  next  place  with  freedom.

eventually,  she  did  turn  her  gaze  back  to  him,  still  smiling.

“  y-you've  read  too  many  philosophy  books,  h-hannibal,”  she  chuckled,  clearly  joking  around  but  happy  to  hear  his  words.

“  y-you're  not  so  bad  yourself.  and  you've  made  it  t-this  far.  i  think  w-we're  both  survivors.  in  our  own  ways.  you  seem  like  a  t-tough  cookie  to  crack.  i  think  y-you'll  make  it  further  than  all  of  us,  ”  she  finally  admitted,  shrugging  her  shoulders  and  slidding  off  the  counter  as  she  did  so,  heading  to  the  nearest  window  to  take  a  peek  outside  and  plan  her  next  move.

[il-mostrc]

He wasn’t going to contest her on that. He had read far too many philosophy books. He rather enjoyed Nietzsche's view on life and often quoted him in his medical journals. There is a knowing smile that breaks on his face when she mentions he might be a survivor himself. There has already been plenty that he picked off for his own survival. He had once considered her in a different context entirely. He thought differently now, or at least filed her under a different heading.

“If that’s the case, maybe we should work together. Better odds for both of us.” His eyes lingered on her as she peered out the window. “The only way to trust one another is to get to know each other.” Normally, he would have gone on, living the nomad life that he’s been adapting to since he left his last colony. While a large group may have been too much to handle, too many variables, too much noise, one or two would be the better option.

“How about it?” He held out his hand in a different form of greeting now. A pact.

[il-mostrc]

Hannibal's dinner-mates don't have to worry about getting the explosive diarrhea parasite. He gets all his produce from local markets. Only the fresh and not from Taylor Farms or wherever the hell this is coming from.