#il-mostrc

Now that's one hell of a greeting. Leon sucks a sharp breath when that familiar whistle reaches his ear — but he doesn't die. He exhales as he whips his head around. He doesn't look to the target nor does he try to puzzle the shooters location. Not here, out in the open. He's immediately moving for cover.

It's a modest half-wall but it serves its purpose. He hunkers down and checks his surroundings. He doesn't sight the glint of a scope in the sun or anything that resembles a nest. He's pretty sure it's at his back beyond his crumbling refuge. His mind immediately casts back to Jack Krauser. He hates the feeling of being hunted from on high.

For all he knows, it's just someone picking off infected too close to camp. He can't risk his guess. If he were younger, he'd already be calling up to ask if they needed a hand. He's a bit older now. His frontal lobe has fully developed.

And he'd rather it not end up splattered across the dirt in bits of bone shard and brain matter.

"Fuck me." He utters in a quiet breath. Sun beating down on him, an unidentified sniper at a staggering advantage, the threat of infected being drawn to the noise? Talk about some people having all the luck. He uses the moment of stillness to check over his supplies. His bullets are perpetually low, as always. At least he still has a grenade. Just the one.

He’s trying, @il-mostrc, he really is.

He isn’t sure what he is trying but nonetheless is. Trying not leave insurmountable damage in his wake, trying and failing to remain indifferent. He wasn’t, and that was probably the greatest mistake. His own personal indiscretion — hardly anything that would please the other to know, as Will considers it a mistake, one he knowingly allows himself to make. Waiting for this high to fall, for consequences to make their way to him; allotting a space for Hannibal to hide right underneath his skin, erasing an emptiness that now was insatiable.

Broken breaths between deep, pained gulps rattled Howard’s chest. It rose and fell violently, his body shivering in the wake of the violence he had wreaked upon the bodies before him. Blood and gore flowed freely through his human teeth, soaking the front of his button-up shirt.

In front of him lay bodies upon bodies -- mortal humans he had sworn not to harm with the curse he was saddled with. He’d begged them to stop. Begged them to leave him be. Howard held his face; his shoulders shuddered as he cried, keening, gutted over the sin he had committed.

The blood in his throat, fresh, alive, heavy with vitae that coursed through his own body. Delicious. Decadently so. He felt bile rising at the thought that his body was enjoying it.

He heard a voice coming from behind him and fell silent almost immediately.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Howard lifted his head. His arms fell loosely by his sides.

A survivor? He couldn’t afford this. He couldn’t afford to be found. Much as he loathed it, there should be no one left who witnessed this massacre.

“Who... are you...” he asked brokenly, though empty of inflection. “Police...?”

Hughie had never seen the other car coming. The driver, drunk, had been doing nearly 100. He had been in so much pain that there had been no pain. He was completely disconnected from his body, which was undoubtedly a great boon, as his entire lower half had been more or less crushed.

Not long after they'd pulled him out of the wreckage, Hughie had lost consciousness. When he came to, he had the most awful feeling that he had died. Even if his body didn't technically keep the score, some part of him did. It was a feeling, in the pit of his stomach, telling him that something terribly unnatural had once again taken place.

And Will, dragged into it like a reluctant prize hound on a leash. Jack’s latest exhibit, his wary show pony. Little wiggle room was provided for him to find an excuse that he would be preoccupied for the evening, no excuse strong enough to shake the obligation.

Will doesn’t wear his person suit nearly as elegantly as the people around him. His discontent is easily spotted. Will Graham, odd and restless, fidgeting in a collar that felt more like a noose than an accessory. The shirt was cheap, its fabric rough from years of wear, with a faded blue pattern that he favored more for its familiarity than its fit. And he’s waiting for the main course to be served so he can make his escape then. It’s too stifling, and he’s lost Jack in the crowds of people chatting over the soft hum of the piano in the background. He wasn’t a man who fit well into cages, and this place felt a gilded one.

[ unscripted asks . always accepting ]

Gods, this one has been in my inbox for so long - it's frankly embarrassing to look at my inbox right now (or my drafts, really). Everything is a mess but I swear I am trying to pick some semblance of activity up and this one looked fun!

Okay, without further ado - let's dig into my favorite daughter and her many issues:

Receiving attention - Melissa absolutely thrives when she's surrounded by people like the social thing she is, and she really adores the feeling of being watched / observed / spoiled by those she loves. It's not a selfish thing - she will do anything for those she cares about, but she really enjoys being the center of their attention - no surprise she's so dramatic (minor verse exceptions might apply).

Making the difference in someone else's life - particularly other girls. Melissa has very strong motifs associated to empowering females and carving safe spaces for women, so watching them overcoming issues / enjoying a second chance or just living a happier life makes her very delighted in return.

Loving and being loved (particularly romantic love) - Melissa falls easily and fast by default and, to her, it's the greatest thing. Having someone to love and care for makes her complete and fulfilled, and this is further magnified when these feelings are returned. She's incredibly faithful and devoted and being in a relationship is generally a cornerstone of her interactions.

The opportunity to be creative - even if Melissa is a bit of a workaholic and generally associated to the service industry, she is traditionally someone with creative hobbies (singing, dancing, acting - thanks for the inspiration, CZJ). If she doesn't perform professionally, then she absolutely enjoys the chance to do it during her free time, even without an audience (although it always helps - see the first item on the list).

Taming the beasts and charming the snakes - Melissa is very good at endearing herself to the predator in the room and surviving to tell the tale (it's both a defense mechanism and a personality trait). Knowing she is special to someone who could kill her with their bare hands is a profound source of delight, irrespective of these bonds being romantic or platonic (which also matches items 1 and 3 of this list).

During the course of Hannibal's incarceration, Dove writes to him. Not daily or even weekly, but consistently, correspondence always pleasant and, to all eyes that read the contents before the doctor himself, innocent. But it's impossible to believe that anyone with good intentions would keep in touch with such a monster, even for the humanity of it, and in the aftermath of Hannibal's escape she's one of the first to be scrutinized. With her consent, there's a very tidy ransacking of her home that finds no evidence of plots, schemes, or immediate contact with the doctor since his escape, much less the man himself.

They move on to questioning and Dove is very cooperative, but with little result. She can't offer any insight as to where the doctor would go, except that he might like someplace more peaceful, or what sort of plans he might have beyond a desire to not be caught again. It's asked and answered that she has had no prior romantic or sexual involvement with Hannibal, confesses to no unrequited feelings for him, expresses no belief that he harbors such feelings for her. She doesn't claim to have been so close to him as to be allowed to glimpse the reasoning of his mind, the drive behind his actions.

Then why the letters?

This is an old question; early on it had been leaked to a paper particularly fascinated with Lecter that Dove Solomon, a risen star in the world of classical music, wrote letters to the serial killer and cannibal at whose table she had dined on occasion. There had been some fuss, small outrage in certain circles, mutters of accusation in others, and as a result she was not welcomed to play as much as she once was. There were of course many requests to interview by both gossip rags and more upstanding columns, but she always declined, and in the end many reputable sources wrote it off as her being the child of a convicted murderer, and thus having a bleeding heart for those kinds. It wasn't forgiven or necessarily forgotten, but over the years it became simply a burr in her otherwise upstanding character.

So, the letters.

Dove doesn't disagree with public opinion. She can't condone Hannibal's actions, but neither can she abide the thought of him, once so freely social and appreciative of the world's beauty, trapped in the stale dark for the rest of his life. She has no delusions about the severity of his crimes and it's not about what he deserves. It can be said as simply as this: Once you know someone it becomes a choice to abandon them, and she chose not to, even if the rest of the world did. Especially because the world did.

On paper and in person, there's nothing to suggest she's anything more than a bleeding heart—opinions are divided on whether it stems from conviction, naivety, or sheer stupidity—but that doesn't stop the FBI from keeping an eye on her. They'd be fools not to.

Alex hesitated, just for a moment, before pulling out the empty chair and lowering himself into it. Most nights he would have begged off — there was always another task, another prep list waiting for the morning rush. But something about the man’s tone, measured and deliberate, made it clear this wasn’t idle flattery. This was someone who understood food, not just as sustenance but as language.

“I’ll admit, I don’t often sit with guests.” His hands rested lightly on the table, posture calm though his eyes flicked briefly back toward the kitchen door. The clatter of pans and muted chatter of his staff cleaning was a reminder that he was still very much on duty. But here, in the quiet of the dining room, it felt almost suspended. “I’m glad to hear it wasn’t too much of an inconvenience. The dish was meant to finish clean, simple, but with enough depth to linger. The dessert—well, that’s indulgence. A thank you, more than anything.”

His mouth curved into a wry smile, curiosity glinting there as he regarded his guest more closely. “If you don’t mind my asking… what is it you look for when you dine out so late, with a critic’s eye? Most people just want to enjoy the plate in front of them.”