Mandii [across the universe] (chasingthewinds) wrote,
Mandii [across the universe]
chasingthewinds

Will to Hannibal
[She holds a hunting knife in her hand, the teeth serrated and sharp. The duller, useless blades, butter knives and other silverware, are scattered on the kitchen floor. They rattled when she emptied the drawers and threw the contents to the floor; she wants to be heard in the large, dark suburban home. A family of three lives here: a mother in her early thirties, a father much older than she, and a son in high school. The son is conveniently away, tonight. It’s fine, she isn’t after the boy.

There is the glare of a flashlight bulb, the father coming down, assuming the noise had been from one of the family dogs. She had slit their throats while they slept, canine blood and fur on her knife. She similarly incapacitates the man with a sharp stab at the ribs, aiming up, slicing through muscle and fat and tissues. He’s alive, but he will bleed out. Mere collateral damage: in this situation, she is after the woman.

The wife is still waiting for her husband to return up the stairs. She climbs the steps, and sees a thin ribbon of light beneath the bedroom door. This is her chance: she kicks open the door, and the woman takes in the blood on her clothes, the weapon. She covers her mouth with a gloved hand before she can scream.

The reports state that traces of semen were found inside the woman, postmortem. She has a vivid enough imagination to fill in the blanks: she wants to defile and degrade her, to humiliate her victim for a horrible injustice done against her, a masterpiece of violence and vengeance. Just like with all the others, this is not mere pettiness, this is righteousness.

This is her design.

—The breath catches in her throat, startling her from the dark murk of her thoughts, and instead of the leathery texture of gloves, there is only the arms of a dining room chair beneath her frantic grip. At second glance, her fingernails are clean, with no trace of dark blood congealing beneath them, and her gaze drifts up to see another figure from her peripheral, not too far from her. It’s not the mangled corpse of the woman, as she mistakenly saw, but Dr. Lecter, arranging tomato flowers artfully around thin slices of liver on a plate. She looks down at herself: she is no longer wearing the blood-stained clothes of a serial killer, but her generic plaid shirt and jeans, hair worn loose, as it allows her to hide behind her bangs.

”The killer felt more than angry, he was emasculated. He has a type: all his victims match the same profile. When he butchered them, it was the ultimate display of masculinity for him. He felt pride in humiliating them, and then—violated them once they were dead, adding insult to injury. He’s insecure, his identity is attached to his ego. As long as he keeps killing, his sense of self is safe. He has to keep proving himself.”

She fits neatly into the killer’s demographic, but she keeps looking, is forced to keep looking. After all, "For every Jeffery Dahmer or John Wayne Gacy, that doesn’t mean pulling all the male agents from the field." Her psychologist is concerned; he invited her over for dinner tonight, as a pleasant distraction from her current case.]

Have any aspirin?

[Her voice is weary and frayed at the edges: the consequences of a sleepless night at the crime scene. She pinches the bridge of her nose, attempting to soothe the beginnings of a bad sinus headache and blot out the details of the case, to keep her imagination from collapsing in on her. She knows she's supposed to take medicine after eating, but it can't wait. She doesn't feel like she can stomach anything at the moment anyway. She looks at her portion, elegantly presented before her in a rich wine sauce, and tries not to think about people decomposing in mushroom fields or cannibals tearing out entrails.]


[ He is, for anyone’s concern or anyone’s curiousity, concerned about his patient.

Hannibal is not one to present such concerns directly to her. Not in the way he would to Jack, to Alana, there’s no reason to do so. Instead, she invites her to dinner – organ meat is so delicately flavoured, and deserves to be in the spotlight. A sauce is added to enrich the flavor, not to mask it. Not everyone is a fan, and he’s not so sure that Will is going to enjoy the dish – she’s usually given careful consideration to expand her palette in a way that she’ll enjoy. Dishes are hearty and full of flavor, and the tomato flowers are gently placed on top of a salad of fresh basil and mint, something that will accentuate the sauce lightly.

The case is one that he’s been briefed on, though he’s not consulted to the mental capacity of the murderer. That is Will’s job; she is much better equipped for it in any case. She’s well acquainted with the idea of murder’s intent, more acquainted than himself even. It’s why he flirts around the edges, curious and wanting to know what she will do, what will happen as a result of his actions. The way those tired eyes seem to dance across the room tell her everything that she needs to know – Will does not know where she is, does not know how she’s managed to get here, and only just now is realizing who’s kitchen she’s occupying

Encephalitis is not a laughing matter. Nothing that should be left untreated, but he finds it fascinating – knows that aspirin will hold off the side-effects, assist with the fever and some of the madness, and keep it from enflaming more so. An aspirin regimin is normally something he’d suggest to help with treatment – so he sees no physician’s remorse in allowing it to progress for scientific purposes. Will is playing into his game perfectly, allowing him to see the production of such a disease and the way it burns her brain, keeps that brilliant mind from focusing in on him, seeing the way that he’s sliced the liver so thin to where it cannot possibly be recognized what animal it comes from.

In response to her question, he gladly gets the bottle from a shelf in his medicine cabinet, pouring two small white pills into his hand, along with a glass of water to accompany them. ]


Do you remember what we were talking about?

[ Nothing of any significance, nothing of any importance. They’d simply spoken about the concept of cruelty and what it implied. Their conversations sometimes bordered on philosophy rather than any psychiatry – Hannibal enjoyed listening to how her mind worked, how it functioned. ]


Tate to Hannibal

Then show me how! [ It's a burst of anger, a sudden emotional cacophony, and he knocks over a mason jar full of pickled onions courtesy of his mom. It shatters, and Tate stares at it, breathing heavily.

The pieces of glass are scattered, like his thoughts, and he's barely aware of himself as he picks up the largest shard with bare hands and stares at it, gaze intent, gaze focused, even though he's talking to Hannibal. ]

You said you would. You promised and I'm giving it my all and you're fucking standing there in your fucking suit looking so goddamn smug I did good--I did more than good, that was fucking fantastic, what I did. Look at it.

Maybe it's finger painting to you but it's fucking Picasso to me, and because you're sitting in your smug fucking chair refusing to get up and teach me anything I'm gonna keep doing this shit.

Tate to Hannibal

No.

...

Not yet. She will, though.

Tate to Hannibal

--But... But you'll do it. You'll show me.

[ Tate's smile is one of the first genuine smile he's ever given Hannibal. ]

You're not gonna regret this, Dr. Lecter.

[ Dr. Lecter. No more nicknames. ]

Luca to perry

[ Lucca holds him tight tight tight and he swears he's gonna crack the other's ribs but he can handle it--he can definitely handle it--and he finally just throws caution to the wind and plants a hard, passionate kiss on Perry.

He's set him down, at least, and one hand is forcefully pushing him towards the wall, against the makeup mirror, nearly knocking over a vase. The other has a hold of his jaw and it's only when he pulls back that he looks dazed for a moment before he simply grins. ]

I want to take you out tonight.

Irene to Sherlock
[ lace was perfect, just as irene had imagined.

not that she spent much of her time imagining sherlock in much of anything, but if she'd been forced to choose, lace would be it. and while she prided herself on her self control, it hardly seemed the time to be shy. she'd been hoping that they would be alone, hoping that an opportunity would come. pressing the other woman into the changing room and pulling the curtain was just her seizing of that moment.

and now that they were finally touching, it was electric enough that she couldn't keep herself from sighing against her lips, surprisingly gentle as she swipes a tongue over sherlock's lower lip, her hands smoothing over her hips and tugging closer, using the wall as leverage to press them together.

perfect.

she hadn't expected any kind of reciprocation and was pleasantly surprised as such, making a noise low in her throat in return. ]

Cinna to finnick
You'd be surprised at what people let slip to a style team.

[ That's all he says--simple and maybe not even true. But Finnick is here, and it's nice to sling an arm over him and drag him closer as gently as he can, placing a light kiss at his temple. ]

I don't want any of the offers. I'm picky about a lot of things, Finnick.

Annie to finnick
Yes. Don't like to say things I don't mean. And think more people should thank you. For being so kind. For helping me. Saving me.

[She nods, keeping her eyes trained on him.]

I do. Always have... Uhm... [She darts her eyes to the corner of hte room, her hand coming to play with her hair.] Saved up, bought a magazine from the Capitol. [They were brought in on occasion.] One about you. After you won... [She won't tell him that she'd been 11 at the time and had put it on her door, kissing it every night before bed.]

John to Jim
(Picture prompt - death of Sherlock)

Clay to Rebecca
[ Clay lets out a groan, a quiet thing that barely makes it through the speakers. He feels the sudden pressure, the weight of Rebecca pressing down on him even if he keeps forcing himself to run, to keep the animus engaged so it doesn't eject him. So long as Rebecca doesn't single our a memory for him, he could stay in the blackroom for a long, long time. Eventually Baby would either suck him in or spit him out-- there's no room for loiterers in the animus' programming. He can still feel his ancestors clawing at his back but Rebecca is so much more present and pleasant, even, and for as much as he wants to reach up and touch her waist, he's just as pleased to lay here under her like this. ] Well, I won't complain, but I don't think you'll be debauching anyone at this pace, sweetheart.

Khan to Kirk
[No. No, no, no, nonono--

Every inch of him rebels at the very notion. "I refuse", he wants to say, or even just a simple, hateful "No," but he knows exactly what will happen if he does. Threats against his people. Maybe even more than threats. Much as he was loathe to admit it, Kirk's brutality meant he wasn't entirely easy to predict.

The mere statement that they were meant to serve just because that's what they'd been created to do, that is enough to enrage him further. They'd rose beyond that, beyond their initial purpose into something better. Better than humans, and now Kirk wanted to shove him--Khan, of all people--right back down again.

It's so unacceptable, and yet he has no choice.

There is, of course, a momentary temptation not to do his best, to be adequate, but then he remembers: "Let's see how well you do." Kirk would probably not stand for anything less.

He keeps his eyes on Kirk, lets every ounce of the hate he feels for him show as he wets his lips before his mouth opens, lips sliding around the tip of the man's cock. He hums softly, just a little, as he sucks him in, knowing what it would do. Khan hasn't really done this before, but it's easy enough to emulate what others had done to him. This was shameful, humiliating, disgusting, too, and with every passing second he felt that. Kirk ought to be the one down here, doing this to him, not the other way around. But still, for his crew, he takes him down again, almost all the way this time, then he pulls back slowly, his tongue working along the bottom of his cock as he moved.

He thinks about how much he'd love to bite down as he does his best to work him over, tongue curling around the tip of his cock, before his lips are wrapped tightly around his length again. He doesn't, of course, much as he might want to press his teeth in. Instead he swears to himself that he'll make Kirk do this later, to pay him back for this insult.]

Hulk to Bones
[boy this is awkward] Well, I started with one. And then it sort of got shredded. It's...complicated.
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