Broken Things
Fandom: Hannibal, Battlestar Galactica
Summary: He's fallen back into a bed with her more times than any other, his curiosity wont let her go.
Warnings: rough sex, blood play, Hannibal being a creepy fuck
Notes: This was originally going to be attached to something else, but I felt it worked well enough on its own.
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He wants her screaming and moaning when he fucks her, but she never does. The silence from her leaves him with the sound of their flesh, his harsh breathing, the reminders of his body- that he is human. His muscles ache and his skin burns from the furrows she leaves across his chest and back with her nails. When she rides him she leaves him sweaty and bloody, a painted and spent body. Sometimes it feels like she's ripping seams, reaching for a person stuffed under his skin. Other nights he thinks the red sticky palm prints she lays across him are a plaster, holding together a hollow shell of what could be a man. Why she should want to repair his hairline fractures, his chipping enamel, is a mystery.
He latches his mouth to her shoulder, her thighs, her breasts, even her neck. He thinks about breaking through her with his teeth and finding whatever she's left to die under her skin. He isn't sure if it's a scared little girl or an old dying woman. He often saw her tracing the bruises, pressing against them until her body wound itself tight with tension, holding back the sounds of pain.
He doesn't question her silence, or her actions. She stretched the same courtesy to him, for the colors he leaves patterned across her body.
They don't hold each other, or talk about their lives. He's done his research, and he knows what he wants about her. Anything more substantial is gleaned first hand. His tongue on her thighs, his hands on her breasts, his nose in her hair. She's so quiet he uses his body to listen. Vibration from her heart through her bone and skin, transferred to his fingertips.
She's alone. It's a well worn cloak and she's sewn it onto her skin. It had to have been comforting once, in her success and independence. He suspects it's gotten much harder to wear since the death of her family. Still, it's not what chafes her, what's slowly wearing her down. He hasn't found that yet, and he wants to. He's fallen back into a bed with her more times than any other, his curiosity wont let her go. Once he finds that piece, that thing that's killing her from the inside out so much more effectively than the cancer he's started to smell, he knows exactly what to do.
He'll wait for the bruises to heal before finding her in her own bed. It'll be a task, bleeding her but not waking her, he cannot have her thrashing and he will not want her sedated. Her blood will be for the police, but the body will be his. She is not to be consumed and elevated, she is quite something else already, but she has to be kept. Something as unique as her was not for the common world.
But before that, he had to find that thread. The broken, unraveling thing, that's killing her.
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Summary: He's fallen back into a bed with her more times than any other, his curiosity wont let her go.
Warnings: rough sex, blood play, Hannibal being a creepy fuck
Notes: This was originally going to be attached to something else, but I felt it worked well enough on its own.
-
He wants her screaming and moaning when he fucks her, but she never does. The silence from her leaves him with the sound of their flesh, his harsh breathing, the reminders of his body- that he is human. His muscles ache and his skin burns from the furrows she leaves across his chest and back with her nails. When she rides him she leaves him sweaty and bloody, a painted and spent body. Sometimes it feels like she's ripping seams, reaching for a person stuffed under his skin. Other nights he thinks the red sticky palm prints she lays across him are a plaster, holding together a hollow shell of what could be a man. Why she should want to repair his hairline fractures, his chipping enamel, is a mystery.
He latches his mouth to her shoulder, her thighs, her breasts, even her neck. He thinks about breaking through her with his teeth and finding whatever she's left to die under her skin. He isn't sure if it's a scared little girl or an old dying woman. He often saw her tracing the bruises, pressing against them until her body wound itself tight with tension, holding back the sounds of pain.
He doesn't question her silence, or her actions. She stretched the same courtesy to him, for the colors he leaves patterned across her body.
They don't hold each other, or talk about their lives. He's done his research, and he knows what he wants about her. Anything more substantial is gleaned first hand. His tongue on her thighs, his hands on her breasts, his nose in her hair. She's so quiet he uses his body to listen. Vibration from her heart through her bone and skin, transferred to his fingertips.
She's alone. It's a well worn cloak and she's sewn it onto her skin. It had to have been comforting once, in her success and independence. He suspects it's gotten much harder to wear since the death of her family. Still, it's not what chafes her, what's slowly wearing her down. He hasn't found that yet, and he wants to. He's fallen back into a bed with her more times than any other, his curiosity wont let her go. Once he finds that piece, that thing that's killing her from the inside out so much more effectively than the cancer he's started to smell, he knows exactly what to do.
He'll wait for the bruises to heal before finding her in her own bed. It'll be a task, bleeding her but not waking her, he cannot have her thrashing and he will not want her sedated. Her blood will be for the police, but the body will be his. She is not to be consumed and elevated, she is quite something else already, but she has to be kept. Something as unique as her was not for the common world.
But before that, he had to find that thread. The broken, unraveling thing, that's killing her.
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