𝘿𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙈𝙖𝙣

Kill. I love a good shotgun wedding.

Marry, then, is it?

Fuck.

Kill. Sorry, Chuck.

"If it is by my right eye that I must sacrifice, Jezebel, by all means, pluck it out and spare me this misery." Deliberately derived from the book of Matthew, her Devil dared. His rutilant reds never waver to see the blurry tip sharpen in focus. It was a mild discomfort to the ache of desire. Instead, they stayed fixed, locked into her soul, searching the shards revealed by her suffering. He knew that familiar freight, a hell frozen in her eyes and always to her father's delight. "But I must confess, dear Jezebel:" His words welted the soft, snowy skin, attempting to dry the crimson that caked those tender loving lips. He was in her mind, moving things around like an intruder inside her home. "I'll come back for you." With a lick of his bottom lip, Hannibal strolled his eyes down her core. That hairpin was still stuck and set to pluck. She looked feral down the barrel of a beautiful needle, with gore glossing those gorgeous lips and the softest crimson chin. The way it rolled down her neck, with the engorged veins from her strained, stuttering breath and persistent struggle, was inviting, even more than the beating bloom of her bust plucking the strings of a bludgeoned bodice. How it mixed with the feverish fear beaded on her body like morning dew. It brought a beautiful bouquet of her heavenly body and blood that would attract any animal for miles. Hannibal found it fascinating how some smells can trigger a memory, as one hand positioned pervertedly upon her knee. Pheromones. It took him back to when she was far too fresh from her mother's oven, tempting him with her cherry tart, too hot to savor genuinely, and had now settled at the perfect temp. And at the very moment, Hannibal's eyes dilated into the darkness. When they returned, he pressed firmly between her thighs, revealing the ravenous appetite in his arousal. He inched forward, feeling the needle etch over each long lash, then torture a sharp tingle into one tear duct. Her love spell only cured employing lobotomy– this, he was certain. Only by her will would she allow it. Eyeless or not, a gentle peck tapped the corner of her lips teasingly, displayed by a coyish yet cocky grin. She could see his gaze back to her lips while biting at his own, almost ready to read them as his breath went to kiss hers in unison: "I always do." Another alluring peck proceeded to the other corner of her lips, waiting for desire to deflate the distress. Soon after, another tenderly touched her cheek. These soft strokes of affection were the shield in his fight. Lightly, more fluttered down the nape of her neck– sometimes skirting skin to slather her shoulder length. Teeth rooted at the pressure point central to her right clavicle, hoping it would force her to brush the warmth of her womanhood against him. He suckled softly for some time. However, it wasn't in Hannibal's nature to come bearing only a simple shield. Fire licked the inside of her thigh, but it hadn't come from the morbid memory of being brutally mounted to a cruel chimney mantle. It was the burning of a blade, the tip trudging against the grain with an itch that'd drive anyone insane. Moreover, the weapon he waged upon Jezebel was confiscated from her very clothing. A gift given years ago by him was a small steel talon with a lightweight wooden handle, designed like a single claw to stick out between her middle and ring finger. It was swift and deadly like Jezebel – a weapon easily hidden within plain sight, yet no match to his keen eyes. Targeting the length of her femoral artery, it traced from the back of her thigh, curling to the groin joint. The hem of her panties caught the curved edge, that cold steel staining her femininity like ice melting upon her swelted skin. A needling feeling pierced through her pelvis, but Hannibal had not pricked her as it grudgingly glided over her hood. In one steady stride, with the talon tucked around the crotch, he began to tug them down. As her garments glided across her lithe legs, so had Hannibal's mouth mauled down her body. Bloody lipstick tattooed his lips upon her through the tears of the bodice. His mouth cupped her skin as if her flesh was French vanilla mousse inhaled off a spoon. Only hot hesitation whipped over both breasts, tempting those tender teats to tighten amidst his tease. It was a shared torture that made a single bead of sweat trickle out from his temple. "Tell me, Jezebel–" He dabbed one cufflink against his mouth, staining the white with scarlet. When it moved away, that charming grin grew, a familiar characteristic often accompanied when having a friend for dinner, and neatly tucked beneath two hungry eyes: "Does your body mourn as much as these lips have yearned?" A kiss bruised a lower rib. "Here?" He taunted, then targeted her sternum as it tightened: "Or here?" The cool air cupped around her exposed cunt, his hot breath a cyclone upon her core. Hannibal kissed both above and below her navel, repeating his words: "Here— or here?" From there, he veered to the crease of that throbbing femoral pulp pulsing between the pit of her thigh and pelvis. It was tender, precarious in the way his teeth taunted her lifeline. His repeated words were like a whip beating her body into shivering submission. For a second, their eyes met, and he lowered to his knees in the pose for knighting. He didn't need to say here again, ringing into her conditioned subconscious. Instead, the bastard bit his lips, his eyes even hungrier as he left her inner thigh. "—or here?" While trapped in his deadly game, he spoke for the first time before kissing. Lips lovingly wrapped her vulva, mounting her with his bloody maw. Teeth sunk into the tender tissue. His lust-filled eyes never left hers, peeking between the branches and foliage of womanhood with tortured tiger eyes— even as he started to suckle the nectar from her feminine fruit. "Mmmm–" He moaned, the hard hum thrumming through her tummy. Vibrations raunchily reverberated across her vulva, an acoustic that could nearly shatter glass in an opera house. The numbing note grew with his suction, sharpening its sting. His lips loudly popped off the pulp in a chef's kiss. Hannibal licked his lips, tasting the tang of twat mixed with the bitter bite of blood. It was the calm before the cannibalistic storm. His appetite was far from fulfilled. He loathed the rude, despising the methods of every man before him. She will either give herself to him or, like anyone else who stood in his way, will find herself forcefully marinating in his mouth. Those luciferous lanterns lustfully leered, watching Jezebel dangling on the edges of cruelty or consent. "May I?"

#002 Today I've discovered dreadful sorrow, disguised beneath the blanket of sexual depravity. I do not know exactly where the root resides, only the clues my patient has given me… but I do have my suspicions. At first, it seemed she had a gift for the arts— a passion we both share. Sitting upon my lap, she showed me the scenes shadowing the darkest reaches of her young mind– a somewhat serene scribble of what at first seemed as the very last memories of her mother. Long flowing hair, almost down to the hip, covered by her arms in an uncomfortable, insecure pose like a model unwillingly capable of having her canvas captured. “You miss your mother?” I remember mentioning, only to be reminded that there simply are no memories of her mother. The very woman she had drawn was her. It is who she sees in the mirror. At age eleven, this was a reflection of herself, with full exquisite breasts, and the heart-shaped hips of womanhood. I can still hear her quiet yet quaint ‘yes.’ haunting me as I inquired next: “Is this how you see yourself?” What came next surely caught me by surprise. To better lean over and examine her work, I regretfully placed my hand upon her cold knee. As I did, I immediately felt the presence of hers overlaying mine in what I assumed was an act of defense. My assertion was soon proven wrong when she nuzzled harder into me– and for a small second– I felt both our hearts skip. There was this smell; some sweet scent that can only be described as purity– or more pungently the fragrance of prepubescent pheromones. The aroma radiated off her like a coming fever, an intoxicating warmth that caused my blood to begin to boil. It masked the notes of vanilla, pomegranate, crocus, and white strawberry which I presumed was perfumed from her hair treatment that had me sauntering in a forbidden garden into a newfound forest better forgotten. Before I could shake myself from the moment, I felt the crisp flesh radiate into the warmth of her inner thigh. It was running my fingers over the crest of a vat of acid, burning beautifully to the bone with temptation providing its terrorizing tingle. Her flesh felt soft, powdered, and like the delicate wings of a butterfly free from the confines of a cocoon. She grew warmer, greeted over the garter and the nylon frills that frayed over my numbed knuckles like razor blades. Time slowed to a standstill. My hand felt as though it defied gravity, flowing against the current of a magnet before it broke away. Luckily, not a second before it was too late. These are all the signs of sexual suffering. If there is one soul on this planet to be raptured from this hellfire I plan to unleash upon the earth, it will be my beloved little Bella. For we are all demons in the wake of Hell's brutal bloom, and I shall reign the promiser of pain, their very dreary doom. —Dr. Hannibal Lecter

Gore gushed, globbing against Hannibal's lap like a wet whip of washed hair. The blood beaded into dreary black dollops upon the charcoal-checkered pleats of his silk suit. As the streak of scarlet splattered, he felt the cruel constriction of his finely crafted clothes. He hardly had time to bask in the beauty in the brutality before blood began to boil. Hannibal hid his envious, evil eyes. The moment was perfect. An earworm of a crisp apple crunching before a blood-curdling shriek. He knew it wasn't logical to hear the hag's skin ripping slowly as if it was sandpaper torn down the center. Nor the snapping sinews that came in serenading surrender. That cruel crunch was the crescendo captivating his cold core, humming hard into his hollow heart. The syringe thudded to the ground, staking into the floor with its sharp point. “Jezebel–” He went to speak but was immediately choked. Opening his eyes to witness the wake of her wrath hadn't helped. There was so much beauty to behold in the way Jezebel clung to her caregiver, feasting like a fucking vampire. A pinch at his thigh reminded him it wasn't a dream, all while he adjusted himself, shifting his body weight in a subtle squirm. In some strange sense, he could feel the way her lithe limbs would squeeze him. If she knew the power that was in her arms, the angelic touch of a living angel, perhaps she wouldn't have cursed him all these years. It was his imagination though, that rested her lips hot against his neck, even had it been so vicious. Before he could compose himself, Hannibal fell victim to the torture with an unquenchable desire. Down on his knees, Hannibal wrapped around Jezebel, pinning Ms. Lacrosse tightly between them. Devilish digits dashed diagonally down her spine, the other confidently clutching one ass cheek, as he reared his head and gnashed his teeth. He could no longer keep composed, the sight alone the key that uncaged the animal trapped inside. The wretched witch was now caught in the mauling maws of a lion and his lioness. For a cannibal, Hannibal had never consumed someone without the tedious preparation within his kitchen. But there was a first for everything. There was a pleasant pop in the puncture, one he never anticipated to be so satisfying. He felt the coppery cells spray warmly upon his pallet, enjoying the gentle glide of teeth running along the smooth bone. It was like tearing off the other end of a turkey wing, this shared, living cuisine. “Mmm–” The sadistic soul savored. The hand that raked down Jezebel's back returned to cradle her head. Nails scratched at her scalp, feeling the silky strands of soft snowy hair while massaging her mind. Against her ample ass, his nails carved crescents. As life drained into their mouths, so came the requiem of revenge. The day that Hannibal failed his beloved little Jezebel. In the grimacing grip, Ms. Lacrosse felt the nuzzle of a familiar muscle, harder than she could ever horrify: All he had to do was control himself, not surrender to the sensation of her warm mouth bobbing between his knees to see Jezebel go free. The most shameful wasn't the dignity lost from a dirty dare, but how the sensation of soft suckling sent him into the precipice of pleasure the moment he mistakenly laid eyes across the room. They dressed his beautiful little Bella like a bride, raped before a willing groom. That's what sealed his doom, in a dark dungeon beneath a harvest moon. This was their design.

#001 Today was exquisite. To complement the first time in five years I've regretfully conversed with Jezebel, I presented an exceptional dish for such a special occasion: Bistecca alla Fiorentina — and complete with a charming chianti. It would be a foolish little lie if it didn't bring me oodles of joy seeing her standing strong, smiling, after all the years of suffering. I've met many marvelous minds, but never more mesmerizing. Her mind should be caged, corroded in cruelty, covered with cowardice, and certainly not carrying this composed confident countenance. The way she longingly looked at me at the market had also caught me by surprise. In some ways, it breaks my heart to see her so strong, staring at me like a long, lost father figure who abandoned her. If there was anyone I've failed, it was poor little Jezebel. I can't tell her how it's impacted me, my undying desire to correct my mistakes, but it seems her biggest fear is that I've forgotten her. I'm ranting. Let's get back to my beautiful Bistecca. For the best Bistecca alla Fiorentina, an aged porterhouse is required; simmered, and served rare. This young buck was an exceptional hunt, an aggressive and persistent animal worthy of the time spent slow-cure in my cellar. If only Jezebel knew how long I waited for this particular meal. Thyme, parsley, and green onions with equal parts olive oil set the base, and a splash of Chianti adds to a fantastic, fragrant flambé. To go a step further, a Tuscan pepper aioli served as the bedding for bacon-wrapped asparagus, as well as garlic and herb potatoes. —Dr. Hannibal Lecter

You can see, can't you, Ms. Lacrosse? The preposterous notion that this nanny of a woman knew more than he in medical practice and the state of Jezebel's well-being was laughable at best. She couldn't smell the Golden Cap spores that stained her lips, nor the sweet odor of diluted blood lacking iron. All she saw was the gore staining his Persian rug, avoiding the inevitable question that loomed in secret: Jezebel's autoimmune disease, more commonly called Anemia. Had it even been a paper cut, she would be bleeding like a stuffed pig. But why the secrecy? There was no doubt why this woman had been picked to replace Hannibal, and it wasn't her long list of decorated doctorates. No, it was the way her eyes looked down upon Jezebel, without any lust or desire to see her happy. Not every problem is curable with a pill. Happiness was the real remedy for a stressful, broken home and lost childhood. A childhood ripped away from the hands of the only man willing to preserve innocence. ‘‘Two, to be exact,” He bared a coy grin, effectively concealing the way he sharpened his molars. He knew it was a terrible habit – that, but it calmed the ferocious feigning feeling fuming inside him. His ominous amber orbs ogled Adalina before breaking towards Jezebel, admiring the gore globbed along her lithe limbs. "Self-inflicted. Along both wrists, as you can see..’’ In his line of work aiding the FBI, he had seen it all. Durma drizzled like morbid marmalade, skull caps rendered open bread bowls, those tediously impaled together a totem pole, people's flesh flayed out to form angel wings, a corpse-crafted cello to even a marvelous mosaic of bodies used to paint the enlightened eye of God. Not many had the gift to see the beauty in death; those still, soft lips and dead-doe eyes, or how flesh faded into a diminished blue. Jezebel, however, was no Jane Doe, nor another cute corpse with a tag on her toe. The way gore colored her was cruelly captivating and downright distracting. That torturing woman who knew him best could see the fierce frustration branding both flustered cheeks as he passed and might mistaken it for anger. One hand slipped into the side of his slacks, another coming up to loosen the noose of his necktie, doing his best to keep from making eye contact. From the corner of his eye, he witnessed the wretch work her hands around Jezebel's neck. If it wasn't her condescending tone, it was the jealousy that cringed him to his core. To assume there was something sexual would be silly – naive – but he loathed anyone who dared to touch her in his presence, if ever at all. She was his, a porcelain doll of paralyzing perfection ever since his eyes were cursed to meet hers so many years ago. Strange the conditions of unconditional love at first sight. Even more so when those eyes are big, bright, and at the age of eight. Though she was older now, a woman with a strict sense of fashion, he will always remember those long Lolita doll dresses, dressed in faux gems, and milky white stockings that accentuated every curve of her long, lithe legs. It was the curse that killed him the most when his eyes would close before bed. ‘‘What have you found, Ms. Lacrosse?’’ He gave a grimacing grin. Guilt glued to his cruel countenance while peering down to see the fresh serpent-like bites of a syringe. The back of the couch concealed him mid-stomach down, positioning himself to disguise the deeds done, as a small vial of ketamine came out, along with the same syringe that stuck Jezebel. When filled, he simply brought his hands around his back and continued to move back around to Adalina. As she passed, Jezebel could see the shimmer of medical steel, forced to watch as a predator crept closer to its prey. There was no denying what was to happen next. Her caretaker was at the wrong place at the wrong time, carelessly putting her nose where it didn't belong. Even she had to know the trap she stumbled into, walking down the road of no return as his shadow encased her. ‘‘It is a shame to see such suffering.’’ Hannibal refused to look into Jezebel's eyes as the caregiver slowly craned her head back to stare into the eyes of a devil revealing his shadow self. ‘‘Blessed are those who are merciful to end it. If only we close our eyes and think of a better time. Before we realize what is happening… it'll all be over soon.’’ This was his design.

Due to the stress of the situation, Hannibal's complex countenance began to peel. Seeing Adalina Lacrosse standing at the door was an annoyance, but far from the mayhem in which he foresaw. A flickering flash of white lightning tore the sky, sinking the same sensation of bright SWAT lights preparing for an ambush that never came. His dark eyes dared not stray from the challenge of their stare-down, staying solely fixed to study the concern in the woman. Je suis ici, madame Lacrosse… As a man born of prominent Lithuanian lineage, the choir of Italian and French clattering the air around him was a welcomed gift. It was a far cry from the shouting of sharp-dressed swine suggesting he freeze and not move a muscle. Because of his upbringing and love of culture understood clearly the coded words. ‘‘Per favore–’’ Hannibal cocked a slow, crooked smile. His subtle sarcasm was silent in the sweet softness of a South Neapolitan dialect. Swiveling on one heel, he chaperoned one arm into the low-lit lair. ‘‘Casa mia è casa tua, Signorina Lacrosse.’’ He waited for her to enter before closing and locking the door behind the woman. To retain her from darting off anywhere she didn't belong, it was best to keep her talking until escorted: ‘‘As you've gathered, Jezebel is here and safe. However, not in the best of shape.’’ A glance over his shoulder caught the caregiver searching the room, using this time to note the baseball-sized black skull decorating the nearest shelving. The thought of taking and hitting the hag over the head had certainly crossed his mind. She turned to meet his eyes, and he envisioned the skull-stone fraying her flesh down the center of her forehead. At this distance, her gore would gush like a geyser against his face and speckle him like a sudden, strong, uncovered sneeze. He could create the sound, that hollow knock that rasped his chamber door until it rendered nothing more than an endless swathing of a wet mop. ‘‘Most of which seem self-inflicted. A few lacerations on her wrist. She sustained heavy blood loss but will recover. As her therapist, I must address that this is far more than another emotional breakdown.’’ His faint grin wavered. ‘‘Hallucinations, lethargy, a complete lucid state since she arrived. Has she taken any new medications recently to cause this reaction?’’

The anticipation was a pillow suffocating him. It was moments like these that were magic– unpredictable. The second before being devoured into the belly of the beast. His eyes searched her once more, eyeing any imperfections of a perfect pause. She smelled sweet. Her blood was as beautiful as the bouquet of French fragrance fuming from her vitals. Most stunk of scorched steel, however, the crimson coursing out of her veins was diluted of iron, enriched with casual chianti. Hannibal had a keen, almost superhuman sense of smell. He had already detected an autoimmune disease in a patient, matching with the same sweating sweetness. But this wasn't encephalitis– no, it was far more mild. Far less of the earth and distinctly divine. All time had frozen, on pause for the pecking that purred into the stillness of the room. His heart jumped, hitched in his throat, but that stoic stare stayed. Not even an eye batted toward the silhouette captured in the flashes of quiet thunder. Instead, they shifted from rutilant reds to coal. ‘‘No matter how long it seems we've known each other, my dear friend—’’ Hannibal withdrew, easing up to neatly fold the bloodstained napkin before batting the blood stippled along his cheekbone. ‘‘—there are many mysteries left to be discovered.’’ He didn't get to the details of her hidden diagnosis, interrupted instead by the intruder. If there were one pet peeve that purred through his cringing corpse it was the never-ending rudeness of humans and their need for their many unplanned visitations. His stare shifted with the shadows of suspicion. Nobody followed him, nor did many know the whereabouts of the madman's manor. ‘‘Company of yours, I presume, Jezebel?’’ The napkin rested gently on the table. Hannibal turned to capture the sight of the stranger coalesced upon the cloudy glass door, flickering like a phantom seeking shelter from the silent storm. He reasoned with cruelty and chivalry; weighing the outcomes of helping her to the couch or staying sprawled out like roadkill on his dining room floor. Choosing the latter, he began to move toward the side door leading out to his garden. His hand gently rested on the knob, ready to peel back the persistence of human pestilence.

Hannibal was taken aback by her words. Jezebel was far from a terrible guest. Shattered porcelain could always be replaced, a table reset. She wasn't the first nor the last to lay half-dead on the floor, either, not if he had a say in the matter. Quite the contrary, she was a spring rain on a simmering summer day. "You are my favorite guest. Far more priceless than a forty-year-old Dalmore, and all the more savoring." He assured while analyzing his utmost, beloved patient. A curious brow rose, half-cocking his stoic smile while remembering the words of Mark Twain: "Sanity and happiness are an impossible combination to achieve, Jezebel." Self-medicated. Now that took him by surprise, even more than shattered glass and scattered silverware. His eyes twinkled with a touch of curiosity, growing almost in shock. He never knew of her more reckless side, wondering what her father would say about his beloved beast. "Quite unorthodox." He tightened his grip against the gore gushing between the creases in his fingers. His sights took notice of her dainty digits starting to sting and swell, desperate to feel anything other than the needling numbness. Lips parted, gently blowing against them. "In my years, I've learned that success and the unorthodox go hand in hand." Those amber eyes retreated, turning toward the toppled chair. He gave a faint chuckle, noticing the bloody chords that couldn't keep her controlled. Jezebel, though, was correct. The shackles were only a means to prevent any sporadic self-inflicting injuries. Despite the dreary circumstances, however, he found it as amusing as it was applauding. "Pretend?" He tsked, then teased: "I must confess, I have a deeper fascination for rigor mortis than I have the rigor for ropes." Then it came – the coldest of tender touches. Observing orbs slowly peered down as her dainty digits enveloped his wrist, drawing it down to the valley of her breast. He could feel his breath start to cool through his nose, his heart beating in both ears to the sound of war drums. It was intimate, perverting the purity in his years of abstinence. Cheeks tinted, turning tanned leather porcelain pale profile. ‘‘ I see you, Dr. Lecter… ’’ ‘‘ I see the very man father tried to warn me about.. ’’ Time had come to a freeze, hell froze over in his eyes. It was always hard to peel away the mask Hannibal handsomely wore, but it was fraying off him like worn wallpaper. One could almost envision the evil, trapped in the windows of his somber, sickening soul. A devil holding back the lives he had taken, caged behind dilating pupils. He was hungry, an apex predator on an empty stomach. This long stagnant silence between them was utterly trapped, broken only by the charming, Cheshire smile that said all that needed to be said: Checkmate. He leaned closer, gently scooping her soul in one deep inhale. Jezebel's nervousness, that essence of fear, was better than any wine bouquet. She smelt appetizing, cherishing her sweet soul shivering beneath his black shadow. Lips lightly came within centimeters from hers, Blu Atlas aftershave steaming from his collar. His breath beat against her, demanding them to part for a kiss that would never come. "Tell me, Jezebel–" Hannibal purred, pressing harder against her heart. To him, it felt like two hummingbirds startled behind the confines of her chest cavity, caged behind the brittle bone. From the corner of her eye, she could notice his shadow painted along the wall. Coalesced with the deer mount, the long ten-point antlers were perfectly positioned in such a way that he resembled a demon. The very personification of his psychotic pathos peering over. There was no denying the devil hiding behind the mask– the danger that hung in the air, attempting to smother every breath. "Do you like what it is that you two see?"

Teeth gnashed, ears tuning to the clattering of finely picked china. Anger attacked at his alluring aplomb, reticence ready to correct his pleasantly polite poise. He canted his head, turning an ear away as the room rang. "Jezebel…" Everyone had triggers, pet peeves that attempt to strip off the layers of skin to any reserve. For him, abrupt noises, the cracking of glass, brought back terrorizing thoughts, flashing in front of his face as swiftly as its sound shrieked. Even someone with his evil evaluation can develop post-traumatic stress disorder from the hidden demons of memory. It was hard to tell when Hannibal was irritated, much less angered, strolling closer in a soft, stoic stare. The trick, however, that he inclined to remind his patience of was one of which he practiced often. A simple method, really: take a couple of steps and count backward from one hundred. "Are you alright?" Amber orbs strolled along the traumatized, the same compassion in his countenance void in his hues. Frayed flesh flooded from a beautiful bite of barbed wire that once wrapped her wrist and was worn like a pearl bracelet now pooling blood over an authentic red Persian rug. He marveled at the morbid maquillage mottling a pale, pinkish profile and soft stippling of scarlet stretching her gorgeous gown. How any man could breathe at such wonder had far exceeded him. She was simply gorgeous gleaming in gore. Hannibal bit back his tongue, tirelessly tempting to scold her. His lips formed a soft smile, slowly squatting down beside her body. He took one arm, elevating it upright as the crimson cascaded down her lithe limb. Her head lay against his thigh, propped toward the dining room table. A cold compress from a silk royal crimson table napkin entwined over her wrist, his grip cutting the circulation up to her dainty digits. "You typically enjoy my roasted pig, Jezebel. Though, as time serves, tastes can change. My apologies." Hannibal turned to look back at the table. The sight of the roasted pig plugged at the mouth with an apple. Those once white-cooked eyes now have two beady black holes, replacing a familiar nose with the snout of a slow-smoked swine. "By that look in your eye, I presume you were poisoned before arriving – perhaps psilocybin?" He touched her gently along her hairline, admiring the knitted halo of white hair she wore as a crown. It felt sinful to touch her, much less hold her in this gentle embrace. Fireworks fluttered the ends of his frightening feelers. Hannibal didn't believe in dogmas or angels, but she was the closest to a goddess or Nephilim that he'd ever encountered. Even how she rested against him as if having fallen from the ceiling in unworldly, mesmerizing beauty. "Can you tell me what it is you see?" Hannibal half-cocked a curious smirk. There was no hiding the cruelty on his complexion. Eyes were hard to hide, something sinister shimmering out vibrant, vampiric hues.