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"Have you heard of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease?"

His voice does not sound like his own, the hoarseness he'd been excusing as a cold for how long? only contributing to the alien sound of speech. He has already had how many? mornings where he cannot remember simple words, or how to speak at all. He is long past the point where he should have said something.

Denial is as addictive as so many drugs, but he can see his calendar, he can see the little red dot that marks the day when he was told the unthinkable.

A calling card from Death on his pale horse, five weeks since given.

Hannibal Lecter is d y i n g.

#open archived #*CJD.#tagging this one like that for variance from my thread with wasthelure))

M!A: Age.

Age: Muse will be a Kid for 10 Hours

The lavish room was familiar, yet unfamiliar, as if Hannibal had seen it long ago and now returned to it. It looked like someone’s office, with the large wooden desk and swiveling chair, but it was much nicer than any of the rooms in the school - more like what one of the rooms in his old home could have looked like, though more to his own tastes. Something like he’d imagine his own study would look like when he was grown.

But among his appreciation for the aesthetic of the room was concern, realization that he’d awoken in this unfamiliar place with no knowledge of how he’d gotten there.

And someone was opening the door.

#m!a: age #open archived #starter

You have the look of a man whose prize stallion lost at the tracks.

[ There was a weight hanging over him and Will today, a dark oppressiveness to the air like smoke clouding a burning room. Lecter would blame it on the morphine he was prescribed if he had taken it. He had not. It shrouded in fog a mind that was not distracted by pain, but sharpened.

The smoke was in Will's eyes instead, in an alluring darkness that surrounded him like an aura. Lecter was not angered by that darkness, even knowing he was its target.

He was proud. ]

#open archived #hannibal spoilers #mukozuke #open to wills #imaginarykilling #tagging you because yes))

Thank you for coming.

[ The words are barely audible; vocal chords damaged by the noose. A sympathetic nurse brought him a mug of cheap herbal tea from a vending machine a few hours earlier, but it sits untouched by his bedside.

He is not humbled, being grazed by Death's scythe, but he is wise enough to be somber. ]

#hannibal spoilers #open archived #mukozuke

―And how does that make you feel?

#m!a: genderbent #open archived #bitches love lady lecter))#also a dose of sarcasm because that's been quite lacking lately))

―To a very 'appy New Year.

#open archived #someone's had a few glasses of champagne already))#drunk!hannibal

Psilocybe || OPEN RP || TW: Drug Use

The bottom drawer of Lecter's desk remained, on nearly all occasions, locked, never to be opened - he kept the key on a keyring, the keyring kept on his person. The small silver key was the only one that opened that lock, and he was eternally careful that it not fall into the hands of anyone aside from his self.

There were only two times when that drawer was opened.

The first was when the small, unlabeled glass bottle needed to be refilled or the package of individual, sterile syringes ran out and called for replacing.

The second was when those two objects were put to use. They were only some of several things kept in there; two vinyl records, one of Lithuanian children's songs and one of Glenn Could's 1981 performance of Bach's Goldberg Variations, sat at the bottom, a worn French newspaper from 1983 atop them. Several unfinished drawings above those. An aging photograph of himself, barely seventeen, dressed in his best suit from the time with Lady Murasaki looking ethereal by his side.

Then the bottle, half full of the reddish brown liquid that was extracted psilocybin, corked shut. Disposable syringes, eleven left of a package of twenty.

A retreat into memories hidden in that locked drawer.

He'd selected Goldberg Variations this time, setting the needle on the record and letting it begin to play as he uncorked the bottle, filling the syringe with his preferred dosage.

Lecter spared the photograph a fleeting glance as he returned the bottle to the drawer, letting his fingers brush over the woman's face. The drawer slid shut, the lock clicked, and he moved to the couch; it was always better to lie down as he did this, he found.

He gave a soft sigh as the syringe slipped into its intended place, the tiny surge of pain as it pierced his arm nothing to him anymore. It was familiar now. The comfort of an old friend.

It was just as he pressed down the plunger that the door - unlocked, unlocked, he'd forgotten to lock it - opened. Eyes flicked to the open door, taking in the face of who stood there.

Well, this was problematic.

#open archived #starter #tw: drug use #tw: needles #tw: syringes #don't worry about matching length