Colliding worlds (Hannibal x OC)

The hunt

The psychiatrist considered her transgression with both amusement and annoyance. What punishment should be dealt for ruining his perfectly symmetrical sketch? As he considered his options, Hannibal's quick wit told him she was testing him, just like he'd been testing her. Was it payback for his little stunt in the basement?

That heart, carved in the middle of his beautiful galette screamed the words she kept inside. How much can I disturb your perfectly arranged life, Hannibal? How much will you endure before you break? How much before I do?

For it was a heart; not a flower, nor a sun, nor a fish. A heart. Her heart, that she had offered in full, and that kept him on his toes. It was for the love of her that his habits were disturbed, that he refrained from killing and playing with the FBI. And the beast demanded retribution, for it was tightly strung within his person suit. It yelled, night and day, to be let loose. To kill once again, and manipulate. To master and dominate.

The psychiatrist closed his eyes a short instant; if Frances wanted to play, he was quite up for the game. His eyes opened once more, and lifted to his wife. It took just one look for Frances to realise she was in trouble; the young woman froze in her tracks, eyes wide open. His next attack was so quick – the movement of a snake – that she didn't even move. Or perhaps, she didn't want to?

The kitchen knife embedded itself in the doorframe, barely three inches from her face. To her credit, the young woman didn't even start. Either she accepted death at his hands, either she knew he wouldn't do it. Still, she watched him, waiting, her breath short. And he relished in the smell of adrenalin and fear, for even if she refused to show it, her animal instincts were taking over at the sense of danger he exuded.

Hannibal was on the hunt.

He watched her blushed cheeks, and the panting of her chest in the turtleneck he had offered her for Christmas. It just barely covered the tight leggings she wore beneath, the form-fitting garment giving her the allure of a panther about to pounce ... but he was the predator. Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Hannibal jumped over the kitchen counter with more ease than could be expected from a fifty-year-old psychiatrist. Frances darted off at once, and despite his prowess, Hannibal's fingers only met empty air.

He grunted.

She was already in the middle of the stairs when he skidded in the corridor, her step light but not discreet enough to mislead him. Hannibal gave chase with all his might, the wolf asking for submission, for reparation to the challenge. To the second floor he ran, pausing in the corridor. Silence greeted him, the convenient squeaking of the wood absent, for once. But he could discern a faint ray of light below the sewing atelier's door. Had she disturbed the curtains while trying to hide?

"I'll find you, wife. And you'll be sorry."

So he approached with careful, threatening steps, ready to extract his prey from her sanctuary. His nostrils flared with anticipation; he could smell her. Close. The door cringed slightly when he pushed it – mmm, it needed some grease. Hannibal realised his mistake too late. Frances darted from the guest room behind him and jumped down the stairs. A chuckle followed her steps as she darted below. Like a fairy playing with a lost traveller in the deepest forest, she mocked him !

Enraged, Hannibal pounced. He was quick on her heels, taking the steps three by three. Twice, he nearly grabbed the sweater, only to be thwarted. Failing to overtake her, his ire only grew. If she reached the front door ... she might very well escape him. No! The idea caused his heart to leap, and a groan to rumble in his chest.

Feral, Hannibal jumped the last set and extended his arm. Bless his long limbs; he managed to catch her ankle. The carpet barely cushioned his landing, but the loud thud and subsequent cry of pain from his wife told him her momentum had caused a harsher fall. Adrenalin flowing through his veins, Hannibal grabbed her arms and circled her frame at once. She was slightly dazed, and he spared no effort when she squirmed and kicked. Despite her struggles, Frances found herself subdued by his greater strength.

For a moment, he thought she would fight him like the enraged wildcat she was. He knew his touch to be harsh, her wrists and forearms would bruise for sure. But he couldn't control it; the beast was unleashed. How he wished to beat her into submission. A feral grin lifted the corner of his mouth, and he realised that there were other ways to keep a woman in check. Hannibal turned her around, squishing her to the floor with his weight.

The subsequent round of mating was the wildest they had ever partaken in. Never had never felt such need to control her; he barely managed to refrain from biting and choking her as he rammed his manhood inside her welcoming hips. Over and over again, he relished in the cries that arose in the corridor. Wild, unleashed, knees bruising on the wooden floor. He'd never look at those planks the same way again. The memory would stick to it like tar to a tree bark.

The Samuraï's armour watched him in disapproval; Hannibal didn't care. He had overtaken Lady Murasaki and her teachings a long time ago, she couldn't reach him here. And so, he didn't close his eyes when the mighty peak engulfed his lower belly, running up his spine like a mighty wave. No, instead, he watched Frances writhe beneath him. Hannibal cried out, more vocal than he had ever been, bruising her hips as he released his seed inside of her. Claiming her. She trembled in his grasp, her head bowed, dark red ringlets spilling over her still clothed back.

Exhausted, he eventually fell over Frances. She lay like a rag doll on the floor, her pants shallow; the result of his weight upon her slender frame. The sweater exposed her shoulder, he buried his nose against her skin. Far from a repellent, the layer of sweat coating it called to him. The animal surged forth and he took a bite, sinking his sharp fangs in her soft flesh.

Frances reared with such force that he landed sideways against the wall, stunned. Her glare was feral, shining with the promise of retribution when she rolled away. Hair in disarray, cheeks flushed and leggings pushed down her legs, she still looked like an angry panther about to bite his head off.

"You will not draw blood," she ground out.

And Hannibal knew he'd taken a step too far. Just as much as he knew that, if he had won this round, it was only because she had allowed it. The psychiatrist sat awkwardly, his own pants bundled around his knees, and nodded grimly. Then, just as she was about to leave, he pointed to the kitchen door.

"The frame will have to be replaced," he stated, his voice rough.

"Your choice, your mess".

He watched her as she climbed the steps; she favoured her right leg. He'd have to look into that later, once his feline wife had retracted her claws. Hannibal smirked; for the moment, there was a Galette to put in the oven.

I wish to thank all my readers for their votes, and a special one to NumbNoddles who's been binge voting :P Thanks for your support ! Thanks to you, I'm getting better in the Hannibal ranking yey.