[Hannibal lets a small smile pull at his mouth, and tilts his head down, away. His eyes don't leave Roderick, focusing on his chest when his face is out of peripheral vision. It is instinct: small muscles will clench in the chest, will show him exactly what Roderick will do before he does it.
It is instinct: a heart beats beneath the skin there, hot and red and life-giving. He could plunge his knife into the soft tissue between the bones just there, dig between his ribs. He can pull them apart, break them with the strength of his arms. He can rip that heart, still beating, from its shell and drink from it till it's withered and empty. Hannibal can hollow him out, until he's sated, gorged, and crawl under the eaves of his ribcage, crawl inside and make himself a home of musculature and gristle and bone and rotting flesh.
He lifts his hands slowly, both knives in the air, a gesture not of submission or innocence. See me. Every inch of his body screams it.]
Every day is an extraordinary situation. But when the extraordinary becomes ordinary in our own minds, do we become ordinary as well?
[He gives little advanced notice: the muscles in his chest clench half a second before his hands, initially loose on the weapons in the air, tighten on the knives. He drives forward to close the distance between them, relying on their space being too close for the gun to stop him, stop his fun. I respect the hell out of you, and Hannibal wants to show his respect in turn. He lifts the shank high to pull down, angles the butter knife low to drive up. He wants to soak himself in ordinary blood.]
spam }
It is instinct: a heart beats beneath the skin there, hot and red and life-giving. He could plunge his knife into the soft tissue between the bones just there, dig between his ribs. He can pull them apart, break them with the strength of his arms. He can rip that heart, still beating, from its shell and drink from it till it's withered and empty. Hannibal can hollow him out, until he's sated, gorged, and crawl under the eaves of his ribcage, crawl inside and make himself a home of musculature and gristle and bone and rotting flesh.
He lifts his hands slowly, both knives in the air, a gesture not of submission or innocence. See me. Every inch of his body screams it.]
Every day is an extraordinary situation. But when the extraordinary becomes ordinary in our own minds, do we become ordinary as well?
[He gives little advanced notice: the muscles in his chest clench half a second before his hands, initially loose on the weapons in the air, tighten on the knives. He drives forward to close the distance between them, relying on their space being too close for the gun to stop him, stop his fun. I respect the hell out of you, and Hannibal wants to show his respect in turn. He lifts the shank high to pull down, angles the butter knife low to drive up. He wants to soak himself in ordinary blood.]