#il-mostrc

[imjustanauthor]

@il-mostrc

The strange nature of cases designated an X-File meant that the circumstances surrounding the investigation often ended up being just as unusual as the content within. Sometimes people contacted Mulder directly, having heard word of his work, sometimes he found them through the media or internet forums, and, surprisingly rarely, they came through official FBI routes.

This was one of the few cases that had been on record before Mulder had picked it up, though that wasn't to say it had come to him in the form of an X-File itself. Instead, what had happened was he had connected some dots, put his own case together, and petitioned for it to be taken seriously. Usually, this didn't work out in Mulder's favour, what with the outlandish claims he had a habit of making, but maybe somebody had accidentally filed a response incorrectly because somehow he'd found himself with a response officially sanctioning his investigation.

It wasn't just one weird situation that Mulder was looking into this time. There had been a whole string of strange, elaborate murders in one single county, and he was convinced that there was something unnatural to it. Oh yes, killers had already been identified in the vast majority of the cases - he wasn't going to deny that - but there had to be something more to it. After all, you just didn't see crimes like that at such a high frequency!

Mulder's whole proposition had been based on not the profiles of the individuals involved, but rather the population as a whole. Being an extremely talented criminal profiler (when he wasn't too busy chasing ghosts and ghouls), this was something that he had been able to argue with ample research backing him up. However, this was the X-Files, and therefore there had to be a twist. In this case, it was demonic in nature.

The theory was simple. A demonic presence was in the area, encouraging some kind of murderous psychosis in select residents. If Agent Scully weren't on holiday, she would have surely laughed at the idea, but she was too busy sunning herself on a European beach to care. That did, however, leave Mulder without the medical professional assistance that he had come to rely on.

Through a series of connections and called in favours, a replacement for Scully had been found. Apparently there was a doctor who had been helping the FBI with some similarly elaborate murders (perhaps there had been a demon there too?) and, somehow, someone had got him to agree to help out. That was how Mulder had found himself in a morgue, waiting for one Doctor Hannibal Lecter to appear.

The man was, thankfully, perfectly punctual, appearing exactly as the hour ticked over as had been arranged. Mulder cast an eye over him, taking note of his appearance as he sauntered over to shake his hand in greeting.

"Doctor Lecter, I assume. My name's Special Agent Mulder. I hear you've agreed to perform an autopsy for me," he said. "We're looking for any signs of anything ritualistic or otherwise unusual. Have you been briefed already?"

At this point, Mulder was assuming he hadn't been. When it came to the X-Files, people often seemed reluctant to actually mention the details of what was going on.

[stingslikeabee]

plotted starter . @il-mostrc

The room occupied by the doctor was distinctive from the others made available for travelers and patrons alike: it lacked the more impersonal standards of the furniture and other amenities, replaced instead by a plethora of keepsakes: there were picture frames over the dresser, a number of dresses and finer fabrics stored in the wardrobe and a couple of jewelry boxes filled with shiny trinkets sitting atop the vanity. The flowers by the window were fresh desert lilies and the delicate linens and patchwork used for the covers suggested that someone had handcrafted these with care and patience.

It looked like a room someone lived in - and that would be the truth, even if Hannibal Lecter was the one currently occupying it as a guest. The town's new doctor arrived under less than optimal conditions to the settlement, being the first individual to require his own assistance. It had been very fortunate that a butcher's assistant was at the inn's card table when disaster struck, luckily able to follow the newcomer's guidance with more ability than the usual farm hand. The owner herself was not entirely useless - Melissa had done her fair share of nursing and was unperturbed by the blood and the aftermath of the improvised surgery.

Now that Hannibal was patched up and recovering, all he needed was time - in addition to a decent diet, some fresh air and sunshine. To allow him to use Melissa's own chambers seemed like the obvious decision: it was the only one available on the ground floor, with the best lodgings being offered upstairs (offering less noise and more privacy, however impossible to reach for a man in his conditions). The woman decided to sleep upstairs instead, having resided at the inn since selling the old house where she had lived with her late husband and taking over the family business.

(There was safety in numbers and in being within the city, she told people; besides, living alone at their small house away from downtown reminded her too much of the man who had shared the place with her - staying busy and close to the inn was the best for her mind and soul, or so Melissa would say to anyone who asked.)

A couple of knocks to the door announced her arrival, waiting until the doctor's verbal authorization was granted for her to come inside. The brunette then appeared, sparing the man a warm smile while efficiently balancing a tray on the hand unoccupied with the door, opening and closing it swiftly. There was the pleasing aroma of something fresh from the kitchens, mixing in with an added breeze when the woman concerned herself with the windows for a bit, placing the tray over an empty chair and pulling curtains to make room for extra sunlight.

"How are you feeling, doctor Lecter?" the woman asked the temporary patient, turning on her heels to pick up the tray and claim the seat for herself, dragging herself closer to the inn's illustrious guest. That was meal prepared for him, with a good venison stew, some roasted potatoes and even the occasional greens from the farms nearby, as well as water and a piece of apple pie - a luxury when fresh fruit was available, and probably brought to the doctor as a sign of how valued his position was.

"I am here on your own orders - and I hope you are feeling hungry," Melissa added with a light-hearted quip, honeyed eyes moving over the man's features: his handsome visage showed signs of recovery, with color returning and the effect of good hours of sleep showing in the renewed vigor. In a way, it was ironic that the woman was concerned with his well-being - even if Melissa had not yet realized how she had played a part in the tragic fate of his family.

[cheekypriest]

@il-mostrc ∣ 📿

Sometimes it was just nice to unwind. Unlike when he wasn't back in Rome where James could usually be found in one of many little cafes all over the capital, elsewhere, he tried to clear his head by wandering, cafes were usually good spots too, but if he needed a bit more space, it never hurt to go for a walk, get a good layout of the place, see the people, what it was like. Then again, maybe it wasn't all for sheer leisure, partly needing to gather some information on the locals, mainly keep an eye on things, if anything seemed awry, but why not drink in the sights and try and enjoy it a little while he was at it? So, sat alone on a bench, he sat back, a heavy sigh leaving him as he crossed one leg loosely over the other, bright blue eyes scouring every soul that walked by, watching for anyone, anything, that might draw his attention.

[as-gyvenau]

The air was crisp, difficult to breathe from the chilliness as she made sure to tuck her lips and nose into the warmth of her jacket. Snow descended from the skies above, overlaying the ground with even more white layers. For a moment she lifted her head, her eyes looking up to the sky, moments before a flake landed on her eyelashes causing her to blink it away. The love-hate association she had with Winter was complicated, to say the least, on one end it was beautiful, especially here. On the other end, her lungs weren't as good as they could be, it brought forth difficulty breathing- a nasty cough, and undesirable memories.

A gust of wind picked up, running across the bare skin exposed at her wrist before she quickly pressed her hands into her pockets.

"We eat or we die."

She shuddered, but quickly pushed the voice away. That wasn't why she was here, ironically being she stood at the office of a well-known psychiatrist, one she had spent many years looking for and finally, she had found him. Excitement prickled at her body with a sense of nervousness. It was time to get inside, wait, and hope to meet this Doctor Lecter. She listened to the sound of snow crunching beneath her boots as she made her way for the door.

Mischa found herself standing in front of the door with it slightly opened, seeing a waiting room empty, yet, she found herself hesitating. Go inside! Her mind urged her. And with another push, she stepped inside. She wasn't aware of his schedule, what time he saw patients, which ones skipped, and left him time to himself. She brought her hands out of her pockets to rub together while she looked for a receptionist, hoping to find out a good time to come back if now wasn't the time. Yet, she saw nobody. It would be rude to disturb him if he was in the middle of a session even though every ounce of her body shrieked at her to go find him. He would understand. But at the same time, she felt she could wait a little longer. This was worth the wait.

After all, for the longest time she thought her brother to be dead, yet as she got older, the memory of him hoped for holes in that tragedy, if she escaped… maybe so had he. She softly sighed before moving to take a seat closest to the door.

{ @il-mostrc }

[tacticalempathy]

"Have dinner with me? Just the two of us?"

Flipping through her notes the first part of the Doctor's question doesn't faze her, she's well aware of his fondness for throwing dinner parties, she hears they're quite the experience to be had. It's the second half that prompts her to look up at him, sunken eyes widening just a hair.

Just the two of them, he proposes. As in a date? That was bold, and all things considered borderline inappropriate. Yet she couldn't help but be curious as to just what Dr. Lecter has up his finely tailored sleeves.

Appreciated the help he had given her. He was a brilliant, thoughtful man, but some part of him felt distant, she'd like to narrow the gap, get to know him better. ❝ Do I wear a dress? ❞

Flirting Sentences, Vol. 3 / Always accepting

[imjustanauthor]

The only appropriate thing to do was to drive him home. The brandy that Hannibal had generously shared was of an exceptional vintage, and its effects rapidly coursed through the bloodstream leading to a swift state of intoxication. Various confessions bubbled to the surface, which Hannibal observed with a knowing eye, fully aware that Mulder would likely have no recollection of them by morning. A hangover would ensue; he was confident of that.

The ride to Mulder's apartment was smooth, the luxury vehicle gliding over pavement with nary any jostling. As they traveled, Mulder shifted in his seat, his forehead making contact with the cool surface of the window. Hannibal took it upon himself to gently nudge Mulder away from the glass on several occasions, though these efforts proved fleeting.

When at last he reached the destination, Hannibal leaned over to examine the building that loomed before them. "Forty-two, was it?" he murmured, shifting his attention back to his half-awake companion seated beside him. "Let's get you inside, Fox." He still enjoyed that name.

Hannibal Lecter was a terrible influence - or, at least, that was what Mulder would say were anyone to question his current state of inebriation. In reality, while the man did possess a certain quiet charm that make it easy to agree with whatever it was he happened to suggest, the real reason for the lapse of judgement was because Mulder was not used to drinking alcohol that actually tasted good! After years of weak beer and cheap makeshift cocktails, what Hannibal had been an experience indeed, and it had been all too easy to overindulge.

Thankfully, despite Mulder's state and any undoubtedly foolish behaviour that had occurred, the other man had been kind enough to bring him home. At multiple points during the journey, he'd nearly fallen asleep in the car, only to be prodded awake again. Of course, Mulder hadn't connected the dots when it came to this being because he was leaving greasy marks on the window as he rested his head against it. Rather, he'd assumed directions had been needed - directions which he had promptly given, though their certainly accuracy had great reason to be doubted.

"Fox is a stupid name," Mulder said, rolling his eyes as began to make his way out of the car. He'd already told Hannibal that he never went by his first name, but the man still seemed to insist on its usage. Why he did that, Mulder didn't know. Maybe it was a European thing.

Having successfully escaped the confines of Hannibal's car, he made his way around it to reappear by the man's side. "Hey, why don't we order a pizza?" Mulder suggested, suddenly finding himself feeling hungry. "We could have a beer, maybe watch some baseball. Do you watch that? When I studying in Oxford, they didn't have it over there."

[stingslikeabee]

plotted starter . @il-mostrc

Americans were deeply interested in the intimate affairs of others, Melissa mused while scrolling through a website full of candid shots and gossip of the worst quality, replacing what the tabloids did for a part of the UK and the ancient social columns of printed newspaper. The fact that certain cable channels were dedicated only to the latest rumor about a famous individual and that so many social media accounts had gone viral was proof of how profitable that seemed to be for those working behind the scenes.

The countess' digits moved over the tablet, zooming in on the relevant picture and re-examining it from a different angle. In her opinion, it was a beautiful thing - the evidence of a truly passionate embrace between lovers who had decided not to wait to make it to the bedroom, instead holding each other near the dining table. Unfortunately, not all curtains had been dutifully drawn - the one overlooked window had been turned into an opportunity by a paparazzi to take the picture that now graced the website along many others of different targets.

Hannibal's face was not visible as Melissa's in that angle - but his other characteristic features left little to be imagined, including the scene (his home was, after all, famous among the local society for the dinner parties he was celebrated for hosting). Humming softly, the countess left the gadget aside once she was satisfied with the visual inspection, producing instead a piece of paper from the nearby purse, neatly folded into four little squares.

"Alessandro tracked this man down - the 'J. Weiss' credited for the pictures seems to be this man, a certain Jonathan Crispin Weiss," the brunette absent-mindedly played with the paper, her focus however remaining solely on Hannibal. The Forteguerri butler was a trusted employee - and a longtime servant of Melissa, even before the deceased count. He was discreet and efficient, and his connections with the local Italian community in Baltimore had not needed long to flourish and yield results.

Now, almost a year after Melissa's arrival, the butler had barely met any obstacles while investigating the identity of the man who had started to publish pictures of his employer and her paramour without authorization. They were not a secret - not after the last seasonal events, at least; but it didn't mean that either of them enjoyed being featured online like that.

Or more accurately - the countess could not care less about what people thought of her, or whatever business she conducted behind closed doors (those surrounding Melissa either enjoyed the freedom she provided or were hypnotized by the allure of her past; perhaps both). But the woman had always been very keen to protect Hannibal's professional standing and place in society - dragging him along was never something that sit well with the countess, and to have now paparazzi after them was a nuisance.

"He is a freelancer... I wonder if one of your friends hired him," the woman said without any judgement in her voice, merely curious. Some of Hannibal's acquaintances had been known to approach Melissa in public with rather pointed questions and obvious interest. Perhaps his private nature (including the way he carried his own relationships) had helped transform the foreigner newcomer into some sort of evil witch, enchanting the desired bachelor and luring him into danger.

The countess smiled pleasantly - if only these people knew the truth; as the doctor himself had said once, she was hardly the lioness in the room.

"He has turned into a considerable annoyance, wouldn't you agree? The fact he has not asked for money or tried to blackmail either of us suggests that he cannot be silenced through financial means," the piece of paper was then handed to Hannibal, almost like a quiet offering. it had the full name of that photographer, as well as his address and license plate number. Alessandro was nothing if not perfectly capable when assisting outside his housekeeping duties.

"Tell me, carissimo. Is this one of them?" Melissa's eyes glinted while watching the psychiatrist at her side, watching him with a mix of curiosity, dedication and hunger, "One of the loathsome 'rude' you have mentioned before?"

[psychoanalyzed]

Tugs on his ear. It would definitely be the first thing to slice off his body if he so chose. What a special boyo Will is to have this be the ethic butcher's choice. :)

     Steel blue eyes darted around the room, his thoughts something similar to a train moving too fast to hop on completely abruptly came squealing to a stop at the sensation of fingers pulling at his ear. A breath hitched for a moment as if trying to calculate the means for the gesture itself he was quick to dismiss a full evaluation of it. Instead, he parted his lips, his gaze shifting to look at Hannibal, all the words to say yet instead, "Why?"

[godstrayed]

❛ everything i’ve done.. every horrible atrocity, it’s been for you. ❜ // Will

INBOX PROMPTS ╱ 𝑎𝑙���𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐂 𝐈𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐅𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆. Will hears him through it. And yet, Hannibal’s voice threads through it. A hot knife through the viscus of Will’s mind, always the ever present butcher of his psyche; finding a way to anchor him back down when his mind is a life raft. Buoyed and desperate. Now sinking. But he knows the truth between them. Hannibal had not done it for Will but had done it for himself. He always did. There was no other way he could operate. No altruism existed there.

❝ You can't do that with me, ❞ Will reprimands, ❝ You become transparent when you try to. I am not an alter you can offer your sins up to. Don’t make me sacred so you can stay monstrous. ❞ He's angry now, bitter at the attempt. ❝ You do what you do because you can and because you want to, Dr. Lecter. Not any causation of me. ❞

[governmentofficial]

"So tell me, what's so important to drag you out of your office and into the field?"

Politician Sentences, Vol. 14

Outsiders recognised outsiders, and as he waited on the side of one corridor of the FBI, Mycroft could tell without a doubt that the man he was speaking to was such a thing. It wasn't just the visitors badge and fact that the other was wearing an outfit that cost more than a few months of an average FBI agent's salary - there were other signs, too. The way he held himself, his hands, his choice of haircut, and so on.

Clearly, Mycroft stood out too. This was unsurprising, of course. He too had countless traits screaming that he was an outsider - his own clothes among them - and he wasn't doing anything to hide it.

"There's a matter concerning a British national. The embassy requested assistance."

That wasn't a lie. Obviously it was omitting any specific details, but a stranger had no need to know that Mycroft had been sent across the pond because the British national in question worked for the secret service, and while the UK was begrudgingly allowing the FBI to investigate, they'd demanded a level of collaboration to ensure that nothing was concealed or inadvertently leaked.

"And yourself?"

He was clearly some kind of medical professional - an expensive one, at that, so working out of a private practice. The balance of probability dictated that the man worked with psychiatry in some way. Perhaps he was one of the unit's on call experts?

[mad-hunts]

Vanilla: What is a food or scent that carries a lot of nostalgia for them? How do they feel if they smell it now?

fragrance prompts.

AHH, hello, james! prepare for me to get all up in my feelings for this one, because there is actually a scientific basis for why one might remember something or someone based off of their smell rather well than one of their other senses. and this is because the olfactory bulb part of the brain (which is the part of it that is associated with intepreting smells) is directly connected to the amgydala as well as the hippocampus, which processes emotions and memories. so in a way, they can become intertwined and i just want to say, the strongest example that i can think of in relation to this? yeah — it'd have to be either the smell of cinnamon mixed with something else.

barton wasn't able to identify it at the time, but this smell i'm talking about was actually like a warm mix of vanilla, sandalwood, and cinnamon + it reminds him of marceline (his late fiance). this is because she used to wear a perfume that smelt exactly like this blend and so the smell... it may be kind of specific, yes, but anytime it even so much as slightly whiffs into his nose; barton starts to recall some memories he had with marcy. things like her nineteethth birthday, for example, and the first time he took her on a ride on a motorcycle.

he also remembers not-so-good things sometimes in relation to this, though, like the promise he broke to her about how he would no longer hurt anyone. so the smell kind of makes him feel bittersweet is the best way i can describe it. the cinnamon blend does bring him back to a time whenever he was happier, but it also reminded him of how brutal the years were right after her death as he tried to learn how to cope with it. because marceline was basically barton's soulmate whenever the both of them were together. he was at his best when she was around and she encouraged him to want to be better, but unfortunately, any remnant he had of that desire felt like it died with her for quite some time.

so it makes barton happy, but in a way that a person can only be happy after they've loved someone and lost them, you know? its the sort of thing that you wouldn't wish on anyone else, but at the same time, barton would rather be in pain over her death than numb himself to it. because it meant that what they had was good and their relationship is evidence that he does, in fact, have a heart even if it might not seem like it at times.

[d4ughter-a]

[ jacket ] sender takes their jacket off and hangs it on receiver's shoulders

          It's a cold, brisk night. Abigail and Hannibal are investigating a lead together. At first, she was reluctant to work alongside a psychiatrist, terrified at the idea of him psychoanalyzing her. But Hannibal has proved to be very useful as a consultant and hasn't breached any of Abigail's boundaries thus far. So, she's fine with him. Dare she say they have a nice camaraderie... 

          She's shivering without realizing it, her small form trembling as she crosses her arms over her chest in an attempt to retain some warmth. She notices a blur of movement beside her, and before she can protest, Hannibal is draping his warm coat over her slight shoulders. Her brows shoot up, and she parts her lips to argue, but she can't help but relish in the heat the article of clothing provides. 

          There's an unfamiliar fuzzy feeling that blossoms inside her, and she expresses her gratitude with a rare, tight smile.      ❛❛   Thanks.   ❜❜     She murmurs, ducking her head. She's not good at situations like this, awkward as they come, but she appreciates the small gesture. 

[arch-slash]

HANNIBAL LECTER: YOU MIGHT FIND YOU MISS IT ONCE IT'S GONE, CLARICE.

she doesn't like the way her name sounds coming out of his mouth. casual, like he feels as if he's known her for a long time. the words were innocent enough, but her mind wondered to a tone of threat lying beneath, and clarice's alertness ( see also: paranoia ), allowed her to square her shoulders a bit, her stance now somewhat defensive. 'and you might find you don't know me as well as y'think you do, doctor,' eyes meet hannibal's, the agent actively working to keep her composure in the face of someone that rubbed her the wrong way. she couldn't put her finger on it, but something about the doctor seemed off to her. jack blamed her hypervigilance, but clarice thought it was more than that. unable to prove it, however, she chose to mostly keep her distance from him, despite her underlying and misguided curiosity of hannibal. 'if i want anymore advice, though, i'll be sure t'let you know,' @il-mostrc.

[imjustanauthor]

"Tell me, Mulder," Hannibal inquires with his characteristic curiosity, "You undoubtedly hold a belief in extraterrestrial life. What are your thoughts on their appearance?"

There had been no hesitation from Mulder when it came to accepting Hannibal's dinner invitation. The man was interesting, and a free meal was a free meal, right? Whatever he planned to serve, it would undoubtedly be better than Mulder's alternative meal plans - that being, likely either a greasy pizza ordered from a somewhat questionable, run down establishment, or whatever he could find that could be tossed into the microwave.

The man had a nice home. He could probably do with some brighter lightbulbs, but who was Mulder to comment on that? Dark corners or not, it was a lot nicer than his own flat. After all, Mulder didn't own a bed. Well, no, that was a lie. He did own one, but he'd elected to treat his bedroom like a storage closet, and it was now filled from floor to ceiling with junk and old case files.

Conversation was to be expected at dinner, and Mulder was never one to hesitate when it came to discussing the things he had seen. He knew his experiences were real - if nobody else believed him, that was not his fault.

"It depends on the species," Mulder responded. "Obviously you have your typical grey alien - small, grey, with big, black eyes. I've seen them a few times, as well as their hybrids. More common, though, are the shapeshifters. They tend to appear as silent, stoic humans, but I did once encounter a group of them - different from the group colluding with the shadow government - that posed as Amish and only seemed capable of changing their gender, not their entire appearance."

He spoke as though he were discussing facts and not the theoretical, as the question posed to him had been. Of course, Mulder had thoughts on the theoretical too, but he wanted to share what he knew to be true first.

"There's a species that is like an oil, too. It's a parasite, swarming the body and using it as a host. The Russians are experimenting with it in their gulags."

[stingslikeabee]

@il-mostrc sent: plots please -- let's hear it :]

[ from send me “plots please” . accepting ]

I am so glad that you have sent me this prompt because I am seemingly being haunted by Hannibal references everywhere, so working on these ideas made the braincell happy. I broke this into one canon and two AUs because why not.

canon. Hannibal is a respected psychiatrist that still consults for the FBI; Melissa is under Chilton's care. She has been featured in the tabloids in the usual scandalous fashion for criminal cases, labeled as a threat to herself and society and committed to the institution while waiting for trial... But something doesn't add up. Chilton is way too reserved about her case, and the sensationalism about a violent rampage that almost took her husband as a victim looks suspicious. It doesn't take long for Hannibal to figure out she's been framed (having framed others for his crimes himself), and that Chilton is being paid a very generous sum of money to keep her there, supporting allegations of 'insanity' while Melissa's husband takes her fortune and properties for himself. Melissa is out for revenge - on her husband, on Chilton, on everyone who accepted to be a part of that farse, and maybe there is a god with a cruel sense of humor somewhere that saw fit to make Hannibal cross her path.

AU. 'Jack the Ripper' is terrorizing London, and Melissa feels she has to do something to protect her girls - a confession the brothel owner shares with Doctor Lecter, unaware that one of her best clients is the killer himself. Melissa was familiar with a couple of the girls who were murdered, and as panic increased in the streets and customers turned increasingly afraid to visit pleasure houses, Hannibal remained loyal and understanding of her plight. Eventually, she discloses that the police had asked for her help, and that she was collaborating with the Scotland Yard - a fact that makes Hannibal stick around rather than plot to actively get rid of the madame, given the importance of the information she could bring to him. It feels like the most optimal arrangement, with a source from the police so readily available and trusting him... Until Hannibal realizes it may not be so simple. Maybe Melissa was smarter than he gave her credit for, attempting to lure him into a trap with false leads and seeking to hunt the hunter.

AU. Hannibal, the heir to the throne of a distant land, was once forced to flee during war, having lost all of his family (including his darling sister) in the aftermath. Exiled, he turned into a sharp, cunning young man, who returned to reclaim his birthright from the usurpers with remarkable violence and bloodshed. Unfortunately, Melissa is among those who are to be subjugated by his revenge. In what many call a cruel display of power, Hannibal has started a trend of sending for a young woman, to be selected from the ranks of those who once oppressed him, and then give her a chance of entertaining him for a night - or perish at his hands under torture, a far better deal than his sister was offered in the past. The horrifying tradition happens every month, keeping people afraid and labeling him a 'monster', even if some of them forgot they once supported the armies that also deprived Hannibal of his family and ancestral home. Tired of the bloodshed, Melissa, the eldest daughter of one of the men who served the prior government, volunteers - and miraculously survives the first night. It falls to her the job of repeating the feat, over and over, until the monster is either tamed (or she turns into one herself).

I also wanted to note that Phantom of the Opera was a strong contender for an AU here, but I opted to elaborate on these other two because it felt like cheating to propose that to a writer that has also mused Erik before, haha. Rewatching the 2004 movie did not make this easy though, particularly when I remembered the first 'fake' opera they rehearse is titled 'Hannibal'. I'm sure you can see the Erik/Christine and the Hannibal/Melissa parallels and I have something in my queue that will be extra perfect now.

[l4mbswrath]

sitting at hannibal lecter's dinner table makes her feel like a fish out of water. she grew up on cheap cups of noodles and orange soda, every meal ravaged in front of the crappy black - and - white television the orphanage touted. she can recall comfort associated with dinner, at least once upon a time . . . fast food shared in the backseat of her daddy's fancy police car, morning cereal consumed with the backdrop of saturday morning cartoons that he managed to talk her mama into letting her watch.

but the world has long since forced her to outgrow that girlish security, and so clarice sits with her spine straight and her leg bouncing at an anxious, uneven rhythm. gaze drops to study polished cutlery, to soak in an elegant plate skillfully decorated with food she can't pronounce without sounding like a hick. it's just the two of them . . . three, four, five of them maybe, if the slabs of meat originate from what the doctor dubs ' swine. '

wine tastes like sour grapes on her tongue, and the agent has to resist the urge to grimace when she draws a sip from her glass. she hasn't touched her food, and she truthfully doesn't know if it's because of how unnerved she is or because of what they both know to be true about the ' who ' that's laid out before her on that plate. instead, clarice stalls. she tries not to openly toy with her food, though she sneaks in a poke and a prod with her fork when she's half - certain he's not looking.

"i think . . . " she trails off, lifting her eyes once more with a tight - lipped smile that doesn't reach her eyes, "we've got different definitions of the word ' consume, ' doctor." as unnerved as she may be, she's not scared. no, even as her fingers curl tight around the knife in her spare hand, clarice doesn't flinch in the face of doctor lecter. she challenges him to shed his human suit, layer - by - layer, with a twitch of her brow and a knowing glint in blue eyes.

"d'you love every pig y'consume?" she questions, nodding down at her plate. lips curl, threatening to form a sardonic smile, like she understands the double meaning that lingers beneath the word ' pig. ' "is consumption meant to be some sorta intimate ritual every time y'do it? every time y'consume food, consume books, consume knowledge, consume someone's thoughts. or is there somethin' i'm missin' here? some kinda ritual of consumption that sets all the rest apart 'nd makes it seem mundane?"

@il-mostrc said: "don't you want to be consumed by what loves you?"