Alana's conversation with Will had left her reeling in a past, in a present, in a state of being she thought she had long put away to that little glass box Hannibal Lecter resides in. Will Graham has reentered her life, and while Hannibal is a necessary evil, a necessary joy, Will Graham brings far too much trouble into her institute, into her life, to be considered necessary at all. Still, she finds his morbid and self-destructive tendency to gravitate towards Hannibal sickeningly fascinating. A lamb, leading others to slaughter before he himself lost his sight, then his life, screaming in the dark at the hand that both feeds and kills. He will bring his own decimation upon himself and blame Hannibal.
But then, he is too unaware of himself to realize his own folly. When Hannibal himself warned to stay away, he came running like a little dog to his master. Maybe that's what Hannibal is to all of them, in his way. And yet he sits in a cage, caught and quantified by the woman he has promised to kill, and he is so fond of keeping his promises. Alana thinks of her family, of her son, of her Margot, and wonders exactly how permanent permanent can be when Hannibal Lecter is involved.
The advent of Will Graham in her life years later leaves that inky black tendril in her chest, a gift from her pet downstairs, spiraling up and up and twisting in her veins like watercolors left to leak on canvas. She had reserved that thing, that sick heavy thing, for her interactions with Hannibal, and perhaps the odd interaction with Chilton, but now it seeps down her forearms like blood and she can practically see it. It's infectious when these wires cross, when the filing cabinets in her mind open and the pages fall all over the place.
He brings the Red God with him wherever he goes, Will Graham, and Alana can tell he is once again starting to feel the weight of all of that blood their God demands. Alana has given it blood, the blood of a birth, the best kind of blood. Blood of life. Will Graham's presence in her life means it may demand more of her, and there is no blood she's willing to lose now.
Alana is no fool, she knows Margot could live without her with their child. She knows Margot might even thrive, but she likes to think they have a certain rapport that makes Alana a pleasant constant, rather than a begrudged burden. Shared custody aside, Alana bore the child, and in the event of a split, of the Verger fortune, and the fortune she has amassed for herself, not a dime would Margot see. And still, they've reached a certain kind of agreement. A family unit, with love passed freely mothers-to-son and, on occasion, unspoken, from mother to mother.
Three years later and Alana still hasn't said she loves Margot. Three years later and Alana still isn't sure she can love a person like that ever again. It has become their unspoken new game, not saying it, and Alana is fine with that. She gets the sense Margot does love her, in whatever capacity Margot's broken-but-mending heart can love, but Margot will never say it first. Margot has lived and learned past such vulnerabilities, though she holds no such qualms with their son, loving him freely, openly, devotedly, with such a beauty Alana often marvels at her.
Alana boasts of him to Will. She basks in his discomfort, both at the mention of her family, but in the clear mention of Margot, who Alana knows once used his sperm as a possible escape route. She thinks perhaps he still feels violated in some way. She thinks Margot, absolute Sapphic Margot, all the more appealing because of it. Will Graham is uncomfortable with Margot, and the creature within Alana loves it. Wishes she could swim it. She finds herself proud of her lover. Hannibal Lecter himself cannot make Will Graham uncomfortable, broken and confused yes, but not uncomfortable. Margot Verger managed it in the simple act of sex. Alana finds it poetic. Of all the murder, the lies, the deceptions, it's the sex that makes Will uncomfortable. The sex he never had with Hannibal, in their sick twisted little love affair. She chuckles as he leaves, before paying a visit to her prized possession.
Alana knows Hannibal can see the darkness seeping out of her. She has him caged, can disgrace him, leave him undignified and wallowing in his own filth if she so chooses, and he knows he bred that ability in her. This is what the inky black in her chest is usually saved for, usually reserved for, but Will Graham has it leaking all over the place and it causes her to be the thing Hannibal hates the most- rude. She leaves thinking about how temporary she is.
Margot greets her with that cold kind of warmth that comes with being together and killing together. Alana supposes it's an indescribable thing, and their son is already to bed for the night. There is something in Margot's eyes that tells Alana that she knows, can see the tendrils of dark, of past, of present, of always, swirling on the surface of her skin. Margot never shies away from the monster in her, too familiar with demons to be afraid of monsters.
"You saw Will Graham today," she says, and Alana doesn't quite know how she knows. Perhaps there is a look in her eye, a demeanor she is unaware of that says the Reaper of the Red God has returned to their lives, but Margot knows he has returned. Alana is darker at home than she has been in a very long time. She grips Margot's wrist fiercely, with the intensity of a predator, and Margot smiles, knowingly. Alana sometimes tires of being known, but then tires again at the thought of being unknown.
She drags Margot to the bedroom. Margot lets her.
The bed is plush, oversized, a perfect signifier of their overabundant affluence. Alana releases Margot into the middle of the room harshly, fingers leaving soft bruises on the forearm she had gripped, but Margot doesn't even bat an eyelash. After so much pain, so much humiliation, a few gentle bruises mean nothing but a promise of what's to come; and what's to come in this case is quite pleasurable. Margot adapted to pain, and now her pleasure can't come without it. Alana would think it sick, after all Margot's been through, if Alana now didn't have the need to inflict pain to gain pleasure herself. Never severe, never permanent, but it has to be there in some way.
On an ordinary day, those soft bruises would suffice, bruises that would fade before the night was out; but not today, and Margot knows this because she is stripping down to nothing while Alana stands in power, clothed and postured as a king viewing his whore. Margot's body is seductive, even after the years have gone, and her skin beckons pain like an unused canvas screams for paint, and Margot is a masterpiece, blemished by Alana's passions or otherwise.
Alana stalks towards her then, the call of her radiance too much to resist, and she runs her blunted nails gently, teasingly down the expanse of Margot's back. Margot looks back over her shoulder, then, as if to ask whether or not Alana would get on with it, so she does. Alana grips Margot to her roughly, one hand finding bruising purchase on her chest, the other canting her hips back, forcing the woman to a half bend. Her shoulder now in biting range, Alana bites it, the same spot as always, as ever, and under the feint scar of her teeth there, a new bruise forms. Margot lets out a heavy breath as Alana bites harder. She has only broken the skin once before, when Hannibal had become her collector's piece, but she thinks perhaps tonight may mark the second time.
She wonders how Margot would handle it. The first time, she had simply disinfected it, and told Alana in her post-orgasmic haze only to do that during special occasions. Alana wonders if this is special enough, because the thing in her chest craves blood. She releases before the skin under her lips breaks, and turns Margot around. She is breathing heavily, and levels Alana with a look of grim, expectant understanding. The same way Alana needs this to hurt her, Margot needs it to hurt her too, and Alana remembers the Red God has not just come for her, but for Margot as well.
The bed seems such an odd softness to the rough, cragged thing they will do in it tonight. Alana kisses Margot, the tang of blood finding its way all the way down to her stomach as Margot's lip splits under her teeth. Alana wonders how Margot explains these things, how Margot handles the pain, how Margot handles her, but the ink black thing is greedy for more after being neutered for so long. Margot gasps as Alana once again palms her chest, evidence of her arousal pressing hard against Alana's hand, and her body cants hopelessly against the clothed one above her.
Alana's other hand slides down to the wetness she knows she'll find, the wetness she always finds, and tongues the bruise on Margot's shoulder. She can feel the raspy, haggard breaths of her lover, and Alana wonders what kind of broken thing Margot has residing in her chest. She licks the bruise again, and feels Margot's tiny nod against her head. It is an unspoken agreement, and there is something sad in the fact that Alana's knows she will never hurt Margot enough for Margot to ask her to stop, because Margot has been hurt far worse than anything Alana- old or new or now or always- could do to her.
Alana bites as she enters Margot, and Margot doesn't even scream as blood leaks onto their thousand dollar sheets. Alana swears the blood tastes orgasmic, tastes like Margot's rolling hips against her hand, tastes like the adrenaline coursing through her veins and the pleasure peaking so fast as the endorphins rush madly to her brain. It is always fast when blood has been drawn, the pain of it, the sacrifice of it spurring on wildly, wildly to a rarely-reached peak that begs penance of the past and devotions for the future. It's a dangerous kind of passion, but Margot is sweating, and rolling blindly under her and Alana curls her fingers to find just that right spot and licks at the blood gathering in the crevice of Margot's collarbone and Margot's body seizes and it is visionary.
She withdraws her fingers slowly, flicks her tongue once more against the blood, and looks at Margot, the orgasm still running rampant behind her fluttering eyelids. As her vision clears, Alana wonders how Margot sees her in that moment; fingers glistening with cum, lips glistening with blood, fully clothed. Margot's hands, though, are more sure in their movements than Alana's thoughts, and the two of them never break eye contact as those wicked hands undo Alana's pants and slip them just off of Alana, just enough to grant access. Alana silently commends Margot's knowledge of her, again; nudity is not something Alana would succumb to tonight, not tonight. Margot makes quick work of Alana, peaking her with all of the well-practiced movements of a long-time lover. Alana isn't ashamed of her finish; it's quick but her tongue still tastes of iron and her teeth can still feel the flesh of another and she was close the moment the skin broke.
She lays down, then, and her minds blanks for a moment as Margot licks her own blood off of Alana's lips. As she caresses hotly over Alana's still-clothed form, Alana wonders how often Margot has had the taste of her own blood in her mouth, wonders if Margot's monster would enjoy the taste of another's, but that is a conversation for another time as Margot pulls her pants just a bit farther down, then settles under and between Alana's legs, peppering small kisses up her inner thighs. Quietly, somewhere where the old Alana lives, she wonders if those small gestures are what love feels like. It ceases to matter when Margot's tongue, Margot's tongue that has her own blood on it, licks a devious path to where Alana most likes it. Alana thinks the split in Margot's split lip must sting at the very least, and ache blindingly at the worst. She likes to think it's the worst.
Margot pleasures her hungrily, and Alana still doesn't know why it seems as though simple submissions seem to turn Margot on so much. Perhaps because it isn't submission at all. Perhaps because it is Margot giving, and she knows she wouldn't have to if she didn't want to. Alana thinks Margot is still drunk on the power of killing Mason, even all this time later. But Margot is perhaps too enthusiastic for how Alana feels tonight, and she digs her heels into Margot's back, coming again at the thought of the heavy and sharp bruise she knows will be there. The pleasure is blinding, and the oil stains of Will Graham's visit fall away as her body relaxes into it. Alana idly hears Margot in the bathroom; she's no doubt cleaning her shoulder.
When Margot returns, she undresses Alana with a care that Alana feels unworthy of after the actions of the evening. She slips Alana under the covers, then slips under herself. Margot holds her, knowing she needs to be held, knowing that somewhere, Alana misses herself, and this new and old and ever version of her requires a certain touch, a certain care. Alana marvels is Margot's knowledge of her, and as those strong arms wrap themselves around her and she begins to drift off to sleep, she thinks old Alana would have said it was love, indeed. Tonight, now, this is permanent for Alana.
She wonders for how long.