Disclaimer: I own nothing! It all belongs to Ridley Scott and the gang!
AN: Having read some H/C fics I felt compelled to write my own. I apologize in advance for the rampant romance and I assure you, I am in fact a guy. This is not, I repeat not, fangirlish squealing.
…..it's straight fanBOYish squealing.
It hadn't been a surprise to see the heavy parchment envelope on her desk in her bedroom. It hadn't shocked her to see Lecter's elegant handwriting covering the expensive stationary. Polite words of endearment did not cause her to falter once as she read the letter over. She then tucked it safely away in her purse and turned to her closet. Carefully selecting her smartest attire and the Gucci shoes he had procured for her, she silently made her way to her car. Clarice didn't turn on the radio as she drove to her intended destination; their music played in her head.
Finally arriving at their meeting place she made her way into the house without hesitation. The music in her head could now be heard throughout the silent building. It caressed her like his fingers, whispered to her like he did; and suddenly there he was. As if it were a play they had rehearsed a thousand times, their fingers entwined and lips met with a gentleness that should have been alien to them. Drawing away; eyes that glowed a deep, smouldering crimson fixed her with an intense stare that could have caused the strongest of men to quail under it's weight. A callused hand pulled away the thin, silk strap of her dress from one shoulder. She looked up at him; not with the wonder of an innocent girl, but the desire of a fully mature woman. Age did not matter here. The fact that he was a barrel chested serial killer, old enough to be her father did not enter into the equation. Her palms rested against his chest as she used him as leverage to crane her neck upward for a kiss. Whatever semblance of love he had felt before was nothing in the face of this torrent of emotion.
The music continued as they made their way to more private quarters. He didn't carry her; instead, guiding her with a gentle hand in the small of her back, all the while bestowing upon her the most insistent of kisses to her throat. Once inside the room, his expert hand decreed that her dress's presence was no longer required. The garment fell to the floor in a whisper of fine silk. Now nude but for a brief pair of panties and an elegantly simple silver necklace, the crystal centrepiece of which resting provocatively between her breasts, Hannibal came to her. He pulled her into his arms and she rested her head against his chest.
Lecter didn't ask if she was sure she wanted this. He didn't say anything as he lowered her to the bed, supporting her head and brushing away a lock of hair from her beautiful face. The older man hooked his thumbs in her panties and carefully eased them off of her revealing freshly shaven skin, deliciously pink and inviting. Clarice's scent was intoxicating; he inhaled deeply, savouring the heady bouquet. She was to be cherished.
Fucking was reserved for back alleyways with prostitutes. He would make love to his Clarice. To do that one had to go slow, be meticulous, and always be gentle. This wasn't some sort of romance novel. They didn't go off into the sunset together at the end of the story, wherever that was. Hannibal was going to make this last.
Clarice inhaled sharply when his cold lips touched the hot place between her legs. Clearly an expert in this particular art form, Lecter very quickly brought her to a place where she could not form a coherent train of thought. The eater of man's flesh devoured the sweetness that coated the insides of Clarice's thighs. There was no better taste in the world, he thought, that that of one you love. Whether or not the words were ever spoken, it was understood.
One pale leg rested over his shoulder as Clarice panted to catch her breath. Ten years was a long time to wait for one's heart's desire.
"Hannibal…" she whispered. It was the first word either of them had said since she had arrived. "Please…"
A battle of wills ensued, ending when Clarice wound up on top of him, straddling her long time enemy. He beautiful eyes slid shut and she bit her lip when she felt him slip into her, fitting perfectly like two long lost puzzle pieces.
Clarice leant down, taking his hands in hers and pinning them on either side of his head. She took the lead in the kiss; he lost himself in her. He wasn't just Hannibal Lecter anymore. He belonged to Clarice. The way she made him feel. The fact that she made him feel at all.
"Clarice…" Lecter hissed.
She had reversed their roles, taking advantage of her dominant position to nip lightly at his throat.
"How does it feel to be devoured, Hannibal?" she asked in a low voice.
"Magnificent…" he replied in an uncharacteristically dreamy voice. "You are what I have searched for, Clarice…"
They moved their position, still tightly entangled but now lying on their sides, one of Clarice's legs still wrapped firmly around her lover's waist. A gentle hand cupped her cheek and Hannibal leaned in to kiss her again.
Whether it was an hour, and eternity, a second later, it didn't matter; Clarice now sat with her back against the headboard, Hannibal's head and shoulder's resting contentedly in her lap. Her screams of ecstasy still echoed in his ears. He smiled, drunk off her scent and her proximity. Eight years in a cell. Eight years and then there had been Clarice. Then: an eternity of running; the light at the tunnel, again: Clarice. For once, a satisfied smile crossed his lips and he let himself sleep.
True, neither had spoken the words; but Clarice fought with her love like a dog trying to free itself from a chain. She hadn't chosen this, it had continuously followed her. Haunting her. Dogging her steps. She thought of him every day, and yet… Clarice stroked her fingers through the thinning greyed hair of the sleeping Lecter. He'd keep killing. He'd keep running. The FBI would never stop chasing him. He'd die, cornered in a gunfight years from now if she let him keep going like this. She couldn't let a man as brilliant as he was die like a common criminal. The end of the love story neared. She knew what she had to do. She had known from the start what she had to do. Clarice had made the choice for both of them.
Checking that he was still deeply asleep, Clarice leaned carefully over the night table and withdrew the knife she knew would be there. It was a large hunting knife, just what she needed to do the job. One quick thrust and it was over.
Lecter was awakened by a sharp pain in his chest.
"Clarice?" he asked, somewhat groggily.
"Shhhh." she soothed him, stroking his hair.
One large hand came up to cover her hand, which was resting just over his heart. It was wet with something sticky. Hannibal's fingers probed the edges of a wound in his chest.
"Ah." he said, his voice unsurprised and affect less.
"I'm not sorry." she whispered in his ear, but her voice was not one of betrayal. Her voice was warm, loving, even affectionate.
"It's for the best, I suppose." Lecter replied, taking a laboured breath. "I-" the room began to spin around him.
She gently eased him out of her lap, leaning down and kissing him fully on the lips. Clarice tasted blood on his lips and realized she had probably at least nicked a lung. She curled her naked body alongside his, putting a hand on his cheek and helping him to concentrate on her. Lecter's eyelashes flickered as the blood loss made him more and more tired. Unused to not being in control of his failing body, Hannibal clumsily sought her other hand beneath the bed linens. Upon finding it, he brought it to his lips and kissed her palm reverently.
"Never in a… a thousand years… you said."
Clarice smiled at him in the near dark of the bedroom.
"You were magnificent, my dear…" he said hazily.
"I couldn't let anyone destroy you ." she said softly, stroking the back of his hand with her thumb.
The doctor smiled proudly back at her.
"That's my girl!"
With the last of his strength, he kissed her. Hannibal tasted tears on her lips; tears, blood, and her sweet come mixed in his mouth forming the most exotic of flavours. He squeezed her hand reassuringly and with his last breath spoke her name.
"Clarice..!" he whispered in ecstasy.
She remained next to him, his blood seeping into the blankets around them. Clarice kissed his still warm forehead, leaning against it with her own. A tiny sob escaped her but she forcibly restrained herself.
"I love you." she murmured to his cooling body.
Outside, the sun was just rising. A bird outside chirped happily, then hopped onto the window ledge. It was a starling.
I'm new to this fandom. Like literally. 48 hours new. However Hannibal Lecter is someone with whom I can identify. A bit creepy, yes. Anthony Hopkins was absolutely amazing and he and both actresses that play Clarice Starling have fantastic chemistry. I'm in a place in my life where I'd be glad of that sort of royally fucked up love that Clarice and Lecter have. There's no doubt that Lecter wants her very badly and that Clarice is positively fascinated by the man. I sort of envy him…
In any case, please do leave a review. Unless you're flaming. In which case, how terribly rude of you. Would you care to come to dinner?