#cannibalcore

[quitebashfulexe]

Send your local cannibal some love (○｀ 3′○) ya never know if they're having a bad day too~~

[openfleshwound]

i want to fucking eat you (lovingly)

[bloodredsoul]

It/its but in the same way you’d refer to an ominous chill creeping up your spine

[runaroundhound]

It's not the violence I crave.

It's the intimacy of eating you.

I can do more with your body than the worms ever could.

[sketchyface]

Can’t stop thinking about Alastor letting Rosie eat him cuz he trusts her

Fuck sex! Let Rosie gently cannibalise Alastor, pussies!

Edit: Continuation!

[cannibalm]

What do you mean I wasn’t supposed to actually stab you? That’s why It’s called knife play, right?

I only did it once, how do you know you don’t like it? Here, Ill do it one more time. Feels good, huh? If I twist the knife it’ll feel even better.

Look at you, all wet. You bleed a lot. How cute.

[rotnik]

[manillamonkey]

The dinner of a domineering deer and a feral mutt

Hannibal Lecter x gender neutral Cannibal reader

mostly unromantic, aside from a last few lines

Cannibalism, talks of crime, talks of murder, food descriptions, mentions of other characters, S1 Hannibal, romanticisation of Cannibalism and murder, reader is a cannibal, but in the feral dog way, mentions of upper/middle class, dead dove already eaten, dinner scene and backstory, writer just wants to talk about cannibalism and food, not proofread, no beta we die like Hannibal’s victims

2 cannibalistic serial killers sit across a table. One presents a plate of thinly sliced intestine grilled with a white wine sauce and pear salad, the other presents a simple marinated and smoked slab of meat, fat cooked down to a tender- but greasy- dish. “next time you come to my house, I will cook. I insist.” Hannibal stated, picking up a perfectly polished fork to stab into his intestine, impacting the red organ under the lights of his dining room. You watched him across the table, using your fingers to pull apart the tender flesh. You could almost see him grimace at the animalistic state of it, but you ignored it in favour of your food. The taste itself was orgasmic; the animal you had slaughtered? A corrupt official, who focused more on the control of minorities than the state of his back door lock. You hadn’t made it quick for him, but you did make it delicious.

You met Hannibal at a convention of the arts. A new modern installation paired with wine tasting and small plates of bite sized meals. You appreciated the free wine and socialising of the upper class, and he seemed more focused on explaining the palate of the wine, and the analysation of a canvas you couldn’t find half interesting. He found you yet again that night, dragging a man through bushes and barbed wire deep into the forest by the side of the road. You didn’t speak much, but see seemed pleased when you offered him some of the organs. It wasn’t your palate.

You found his life interesting. Followed him around his little office, followed his deranged patients and his little FBI agent project. He nearly killed you for that last one; that got your blood rushing. Promising you wouldn’t hurt the man he liked so dearly while soaked in your own blood.

Hannibal understood you since the day he saw you at that art gallery. He could see the hunger in your eyes, the way you watched the crowd and swirled the wine glass with the carelessness of the middle class. He could tell since he laid eyes on you that what you were really here for wasn’t an artist, but a canvas to display your works.

You were just as deranged, he could tell. The way you whispered to yourself while cutting up bodies, the obviously home-done surgery stitching on your own body, the way your face flushed at the sight of blood. He found it intriguing; he could sit at the opposite of a dinner table, like equals, so he could understand every one of your intricacies. It was only a matter of time before he killed you off all the same, or perhaps let the police find you. “Next time I come to your house? I get a second date?” You laughed, pushing more shredded meat into your mouth. Blood and grease smeared across your lips, painting you out to look like a feral mutt dining on roadkill. Hannibal sliced his pieces neatly, picking up balsamic vinegar-covered pieces of rocket to contrast. He smiled stiffly at the comment, more to amuse you, than anything. “And perhaps a third.” Hannibal responded simply, patting his mouth down with a napkin as he watched you with the dark eyes of a predator. Waiting for a slip up, for an easy strike.