we are but [ predators ]

@xuteo continued from here.

John’s destruction was entailed in the glimmer of Matthew’s eyes, a small speckle of his life left in the body of his lover. That was something rare between them, never finding someone that could fit to them like a puzzle piece. It’d taken time and changes, but inevitably hearts and bodies had met just like puzzle pieces. Their love was delicate and violent, a love that toed the line of true romance. It was full of breathless moans and fingers that dug into flesh–leaving BRUISES and WOUNDS in their wake.

Oh, it’s something John wouldn’t want any other way. 

The subtle shift of Matthew’s body has blues fluttering lazily to the man atop him, heart thundering against his chest. Hands find hips and they squeeze roughly, likely leaving bruises in their wake as John shifted beneath Matthew–just enough to grace him with delicate friction.

“I’d much rather have you destroying me, Matthew.”

John tastes like fire and gunmetal, like a weapon trapped in a man’s form. If it was destruction he wished, Matthew knows it’ll be a mutually assured death, with the other man’s fingers ripping his chest open and devouring a messy path to his heart. There is a masterpiece of John’s making swelling upon his thighs, across his body and his throat.

Tomorrow he’ll revel in the evidence darkened on his skin of John’s possession, but tonight he smooths his hands along the other man’s chest and indulges in the heady pleasure knowing John trusted him, wanted him.

A sighing moan slips free alongside laughter as he arches, thighs spreading to welcome him a little further.

“Oh, is that all?”

If he arches, if he breathes, he can feel the way John fills him whole in more than just the swell of his cock. His heart thrums in answering tempo, quickened by the calming pressure of those fingers digging in, marking him, claiming him. For him, Matthew would give everything just to alight those blue eyes with hunger. 

“Would that be so bad?”

they’re a tangle of limbs, sweat, and sore muscles on the bed. matthew hasn’t known calm save for these rare moments where john is so close he could easily taste him. instead he closes his eyes, cards his fingers through sweaty dark hair and hums softly. there is peace here, craft from hungry fingers and desperate kisses. it started as a slow dance this time, just playful touches stolen while they’d gone about the day almost mundanely.

it ended up with matthew between john’s thighs down on his knees, looking up at him as though the man hung the moon in the sky and breathed purpose in his lungs.

there was the difference with john, he was never on his knees for long no, those fingers coax him up and when he’s dragged up to meet his lips john regards him as matthew imagines an equal. mirrored souls, he’d mused with one night, drawn in again and again by haunting blue eyes and the kindness of those hands.

ruination sounds exquisite now that john mentions it with breathless humor.

legs snare hips and teeth sink possessive against john’s throat, matthew rolls with his weight until he’s astride him with a satisfied smirk.

he’s waited.

since the dragon set his skin alight, frederick chilton has waited patiently for his turn at revenge against those who fed him to it. before a bullet entered his face, before flame licked into his skin — he hadn’t been capable of killing. even now his hands shake at the thought. and oh, all he’s had is time to think about it. he’s tried to busy himself with writing, with living a quieter life. it made sense to walk away, to fade into the shadows and let it all come to an end. frederick had done exactly what he wanted to, after all.

he’d survived.

gideon sliced into him. hannibal guided the hand containing the gun that shot him. will, alana, jack, and lounds set him out as a meal for the dragon that had bitten and burned him. three perfect instances that could have each been his last.

but he survived.

not many people could say that they survived hannibal lecter. the ripper’s list of victims was long and heartbreaking but his name, no. his name wasn’t on it. maybe it was scratched off but it had to be rewritten once, twice. a more foolish man ( oh, he was tired of being foolish ) would feel invincible, at this point but frederick.

frederick is tired.

he’s tired when he sells his old house. he’s tired when he buys a new one. he’s tired when he aquires new things to decorate it with. he’s tired when he sets up his desk. he’s tired when he sets the typewriter on it. he’s tired when he writes. he’s tired when he cooks, mindful of his new diet. he’s tired when he stands in front of the mirror and learns how to cover even more scars with makeup. he’s tired when matthew, of all people, returns to him — offers his loyalty once again. he’s tired when they start their lives together. he’s tired when the hawk leaves. he’s tired when he comes back.

then matthew tells him that freddie lounds is dead.

frederick isn’t tired anymore.

something ignites in him and matthew can see it, probably taste it on his very lips. dead. she’s dead and he has his little bird to thank for it — for whatever demise she’d met. lounds. hannibal lecter’s favorite author, dead! the role she’d played in frederick’s pain was small, but it was enough. it was a start, the start to something and he knows it — can feel it in the way that matthew kisses him. lashes lower and he rewards the hawk with another kiss, this one slower. more tender.

being called by a different name shouldn’t feel so grand — but in a way, he can’t help but feel like something new born from ashes. finally. finally, he had something to show for everything he’d lost. it was a small taste of what he actually craved but now he was hooked with no way out. they would do this, would bring suffering to those that failed to kill him. one by one. lounds was the first.

“you’re so good to me.” it’s whispered. “look at you — how proud you are.” affection bursts in the form of kisses peppered to lips and cheeks, hands drawing him nearer. “i couldn’t love you more if i tried.”

tenderness feels as sweet a reward as fresh blood on his blade, on the very weapon he’d offered up to chilton as a gift. hannibal’s blood on it had been a promise, lounds’ blood on it had been nothing short of a vow. matthew yields into each kiss, relaxing into those hands smoothing down his nape and pulling him closer. adrenaline has him delirious, calm in a way he hasn’t been for weeks, as he presses closer.

you’re so good to me.

of course he was, when the world saw a killer the other man had reached out and tamed him with kind words. graham was single minded in his thought for revenge and hannibal was a predator dangerous as himself. neither could offer what he was seeking though he had hoped hadn’t he? only rick saw and answered, soothing the restlessness in his veins.

a fluttering chuckle is lost on those lips, eyes falling close as he chases each kiss with a low hum. it’s the first time either of them have spoken of feelings or sincerity between them. love? the concept is strange and he tastes the words hungrily in the way he licks them away from his mouth. it is too terrifying a notion to echo, to give real form to, knowing that so easily chilton could be stolen from him.

matthew was nothing if not POSSESSIVE.

“and what if I showed her to you?”

matthew wonders briefly how chilton would react, seeing lounds twisted up and folded into something beautiful. though not as skilled as the ripper, he was clever with his knife in much the same way that he left her presented at the doorstep of lecter’s old home. she was nothing more than a flower, a love letter to the man whose fingers he craved upon his skin soothing his unending appetite. no doubt they would find her soon.

but it was not the news or the articles he would wait for, no, matthew was more thoughtful. a small SD card is plucked from his pocket and he hums, holding it between them with a wicked smile. if rick could not find the strength to carve her into better purpose then he would record it for him to witness. to hear her begging, pleading, and witness the resulting sculpture of her body.

you rude ass heaux . unprompted husband asks 1 / ???

when he finds john’s body, he forgets to breathe.

the truth was always there, in the way their forays never quite left the boundaries of the hotel john called home. it was evident in how he never once questioned the odd hours john kept or the fact a hotel was his home. he remembers feeling burnt by chilled fingers and breathless come morning. john is a collective of passionate vibrancy in his lungs; kisses, fingers twisted on sheets, the knife slicing into flesh, the taste of blood on his lips, a shared kill. john is a great many things in matthew’s mind and a consuming fire in his heart.

above all things though, john was dead.

soft words, soft fingers, both touch and ply at the nape of his neck.

a broken plea, a mantra begging to be wrong falls silent on his lips. his fingers are still twisted violent into old fabric, the stench of decay rising up as he sees countless bullet wounds in the tattered sweater.

fingers ply to his jaw now, coaxing him away from one half of the truth and tears blind him at first as he grips john’s wrist, as he feels him warm beneath his hands.

“how long...?”

how pitifully quiet and small his voice has become, a tremor of a gasp filling his lungs and stifling the sob clenched vicious at his throat. matthew does not look at the past, the navy blue sweater and the rotted flesh. no, he looks up at blue eyes and the comforting presence of here and now, of john’s voice whispering gently to him.

“what does this mean john? are you-? was it real?”

are you real?

he reaches for him then, tasting tears on his lips as he cradles john’s face closer, as he kisses his sorrow onto the familiarity of his mouth. I couldn’t save you, naively he wants to shout, to shake the corpse left as a footnote to who john lowe was when living. it feels real enough to kiss him until his lungs hurt.

fingers twist in dark hair and he looks up at those haunting blue eyes.

“how do I fix this?”

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