There is something inherently surprising about Margot Verger, and Alana finds herself hating it. By all accounts and subtle hints, Margot Verger should not, in fact, exist at all. Not in that silly, permanent way that death tends to snuff people not only from life, but from memory, but in the way this walking, talking, seducing woman should be a shell of a person. An idea of a shell, even. Alana finds herself unwittingly watching her, because in this mass of puzzles and labyrinths she surrounds herself with, those people that are long and complicated and far too impossible, Margot Verger is a typical picture-book walking around among Chaucer and Alighieri and Goethe. But it's more than that. Not only is she a kitten running amuck with lions, she's keeping pace. Not in the way that Mason or Will keep pace; in the way that she is beaten, and beaten, and beaten, and still seems to walk amongst demons as though they are ordinary men. Alana hates it; hates how much time she spends watching and studying Margot Verger as though she is learning to read people for the first time.
Margot Verger is far too simple for Alana's tastes, which thrive on the complex, and salvageable. Margot Verger is neither of those things. She is, in fact, beyond broken, yet still human. Years of Mason's tortures, not quite known but ethereal enough to have weight, and weeks of Hannibal's influence have left her cracked and scarred and fraying around the edges like a neglected masterpiece. There is nothing salvageable about what Margot once was or could have been, but the seedy little idea that perhaps a new Margot could emerge through this whole ordeal is all too appealing to who Alana has found herself becoming. They could, perhaps, change together. Grow together. And that niggling little voice in the back of Alana's head that makes her thoughts turn black as that ink in her last dream whispers to her: perhaps they could kill together.
Alana is not one to deny the cyclical idea of it all. Rebirth through death. The starting of a new life at the end of another, and it seems all too realistic with the way her life has gone that if indeed she wishes to start anew she must pay sacrifice to that Red God that invaded her life and filled it with blood. The only person Margot wants dead, wants to kill, is Mason. The only person that could convince her to do it is Hannibal. Alana knows that for all her experience and knowledge, she could never twist a person's mind to commit an unreasonable act; even though the killing of Mason by Margot is perhaps the most reasonable idea in her life at the moment. More reasonable than the idea that Mason can hunt, capture, and eat Hannibal. More reasonable than the idea that perhaps she could save Will Graham by reaching Hannibal first. More reasonable than the idea that Margot could want her.
But Margot does. Margot- simple, sweet, seductive Margot- makes her desires well known in that charming and alluring way that men have never seemed to master. In fact, she woos Alana the way Alana didn't even know she wanted to be wooed, and Alana for her part finds herself loving it, and hating that she loves it. It's so simple, Margot's desire of her. As plain as day and unencumbered by deceptions and manipulations that Alana doesn't quite know how to respond. And that deep, angry, black thing that has settled and made a home permanently in her chest keens at the idea of possessing Margot. Having a hold on something so frayed and beautiful and simple. At making Margot's pleasure hurt.
It is with that ink black and twisting thought that Alana corners Margot one evening after a slow and boring tennis match with Mason. It is with that thought that Alana, with whatever strength her crooked body can muster, presses Margot to a wall and bites her neck; the resulting gasp echoing down the hall and down, down to that heavy mass in Alana and the mass swallows it like it's being fed after years of starvation. Alana pulls away, admiring that heavy and immediate bruise, the near-perfect indentation of her teeth of pale and shattered skin. Then Margot swipes one long finger under her chin and with no more than a look, leads her quickly through the halls of the Verger mansion to her room.
When the door shuts with an underwhelming click behind Alana, Margot, in that deep, raspy, voice that Alana had thought incidental and not purposeful, says, "Hello." It is in that moment Alana realizes that perhaps Margot is not as simple as she once thought. And the look in Margot eyes tells Alana that she has been playing a different game than the rest of them this whole time. Playing a different game and winning; because here Alana is, standing expectant and eager in her bedroom and Alana is struck with the notion that this is exactly where 'sweet', 'simple', broken Margot Verger had wanted her all along. At her mercy, a whim to her desires, admired and revered. Alana hates it, and it is with hate that she bares herself to Margot who watches, fully clothed, as her reward for winning is given to her.
But it is not at all one-sided, like Alana's affair with Hannibal had been; like Will Graham's quiet devotion had been. Because Alana had been too proud to lower her head in abashed defeat. And she sees there, swimming in Margot's eyes, desire, admiration, and reverence. Alana, again, is surprised by Margot Verger, because the woman had put them on equal footing without Alana even realizing it was happening. The thought of Margot being a kitten playing around with lions comes to mind once more, and Alana remembers how male lions do nothing but babysit their cubs and eat the prime meat. Margot has taken advantage of her position, kept her emotions, while frayed and prone to abuses, open to attack, but human nonetheless. Alana gasps when Margot takes off her suit jacket and nothing is on underneath. And the slow, quiet way that Margot takes off her pants, again with nothing but her skin and scars to show for it, is like watching a goddess bestow herself on a mortal.
Alana hates that she thinks of scarred and broken Margot as a goddess. She finds herself unwilling to complain, however, when Margot leads her to bed and shows her just how much of a goddess she could be. The inky black thing in Alana recoils at first-this was not how this was supposed to go. She was supposed to dominate, to hurt Margot for being so simple and clear and stupid. Yet she finds herself a willing slave Margot's desires, her body betraying the deep anger and poisonous thoughts to the soft and sure pleasure of Margot's experience. Those long thin fingers trace patterns on her back, connecting a thousand little dots of scars in a pattern that drives Alana crazy. It's slow, but not arduous, and Alana gets the impression again that Margot knew exactly what she was doing.
She loves Alana nothing at all like Hannibal, who had been strong and purposeful and almost mechanic. Margot seems to flow and ebb like a tide of pleasure pushing and pulling Alana's mind into whatever soft and flimsy thing she wanted it to become. Her hands are gentler than a man's, her lips fuller and eager to kiss each and every part of her, her skin smoother, and her tongue far more willing to take time and taste. Alana arches as best she can the first time she feels that tongue lick her chest, the lips she has stared at for the past weeks encasing her and sucking hard, making sure to get the taste of skin in Margot's mouth. Alana realizes they haven't kissed, and as Margot paints saliva down her stomach, Alana finds she doesn't care at the moment.
Margot kisses and licks the hip that is broken and twisted beneath surgery-scarred skin and it aches in a way Alana had not been prepared for. She hates it, and promptly forgets her hate as Margot licks a soft pattern where she had wanted it most. Margot is no novice, perhaps the best Alana has had, and while her mind can still form thought, Alana thinks that this will most definitely have to happen again, next time on her own terms. Her hands find their own way into Margot's hair, and Margot's hands find heavy, almost bruising purchase on Alana's thighs. Margot pleasures with verve, reveling in the act as though she herself gained pleasure from the way Alana gasped and groaned quietly, and the way the fingers in her hair pulled and pulled until her scalp surely ached.
Alana finishes suddenly, and she is surprised about how quickly it passed. She hates it, and she hates it more when she feels two slim fingers slip inside her and the ghost of a smile against her stomach, because Margot is far from done and Alana hadn't been expecting that. Her hands move from that tousled hair to muscled shoulders now parallel with her own, and the movement of Margot arm-so steady and so, so good- makes the same muscles she grips flex and tense and it's unequivocally attractive. Margot's eyes are dark, and mischievous when looked upon, and Alana can't look away. The pleasure now is practically overwhelming and yes, Margot is the best she's had; having her in ways that her body had heretofore been a stranger to. It's silly, really, because it's nothing new at all. Alana had been eaten out, had been fingered, but there is something undefinable in the way Margot seems to do it that has Alana turning to something less than human; something base and animal. Instead of screaming she bites Margot's neck, the same place she had bitten the first time, and she hears Margot accompanying chuckle as though the pain it must cause is amusing.
Alana catches her breath after her orgasm passes, and Margot licks her fingers, smug as anything and seductive as ever. No words are exchanged, and indeed none have been since that initial hello, but Alana knows exactly what Margot wants, and willingly accepts her role when Margot places her knees on either side of Alana's head. The black twisting thing in her chest is so far away now, she almost feels like old Alana again. Almost. And while she may be inexperienced, Margot guides her head easily, and controls her pacing and location without a word until Alana knows exactly what Margot wants. After that happens, Alana is given free rein to look up to the pleasure etching itself across Margot's face, the scars on her stomach twisting and shining, paler than the rest of her, and the heavy thing rears its head for just a moment and Alana bites, and Margot face screws up in hurt as she comes.
Again, Alana feels like that was exactly what Margot wanted, and she's can't keep track of how much she's losing the game she didn't know she was playing. Margot hums, contented, and lays next to Alana for just a moment before deciding to have her again. Its rougher this time, more dominating, and it's the smugness of her championing of Alana that drives it. Alana finds her eyes closing, her body rolling as best it can, taking two then three fingers in a strong pace that will not leave a single bruise but will leave her with the memory of how it feels for a long time. She hears Margot chuckle again, and her nails, blunt though they are, break the skin of Margot's shoulders as she comes for the third time. The thought that she has probably scarred Margot registers for just a moment. Scarred her like Mason. But when Alana opens her eyes and unclenches her fingers, Margot is simply smiling at her, as though a new batch of scars from Alana might not be so bad. As if she had wanted them all along.
The fingers slip out of her and Margot rolls away. Alana half-expects her to grab a cigarette out of the bedside table and start smoking, that's how much of a stallion Margot seems at the moment. Margot has surprised her, playing a game totally different from the ones she was used to. Playing innocent, ruined, victimized Margot, and winning Alana's body that Alana didn't know had been a prize to be won until it was lost. But Margot doesn't feel like a loss. In fact, she feels an awful lot like a gain; one Alana would like to make permanent amidst all of this madness and murder. She wonders what thoughts are going through Margot's head while she's being stared at. Wonders if Margot is having feelings of possible permanence. But Margot just looks up at her ceiling, smiling at the victory, at the pleasure of it all, and Alana remembers they haven't kissed yet.
She hates it.