A collaboration between Dicta Licence and Mischa Lecter.
Disclaimer: All the usual copyrights apply. All reviews and constructive criticism welcome. Flamers will be sent to languish in the depths of oubliettes.
Author's Notes: This story will be told in a series of scenes in reverse-forward loops with no specific dates and that might make the timeline somewhat confusing. Apologies for the inconvenience.
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By whom, and by what means, was this designed?
The whispered incantation which allows
Free passage to the phantoms of the mind?
- T. S. Elliot -
Buenos AiresA strange landscape of cream and shadow. The slender ridges of a woman's ribcage just below the curve of her naked breast. The dim outline of a man's scarred left hand. Fingers feeling along the length of every nub and shallow groove of each individual rib. Thumb smoothing over the invisible path the other fingers have taken. The gentle rise and fall of her chest as he listens to the sound of her sleeping breath.
In the apartment there is light only from the headlights of a faraway car passing through this, Buenos Aires' Recoleta district. It plays on the whitewashed walls in front of the wide-open French doors that lead to the terrace outside their bedroom casting strange spectres of darkness and illumination onto the drowsing woman and her lover who lay awake, observing her.
Serenaded by the constant ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, he hovers over her either as a malevolent demon lover or her demonic guardian angel, keeping watch over her as she sleeps. A pale, elegantly formed hand reaches up to brush aside the strands of her hair that obstruct his view of her unique combination of features.
His lover's skin possessed a fragile, translucent quality that never failed to entrance and fascinate him time and time again. He liked to think he could see the fierce pulsing of the tiny blue veins within the pale globe of her breast as he gently took the coral tip into his mouth and softly suckled on it.
The subtle acceleration of her pulse as she wakes with a sigh, blinking sleepy blue eyes at bloody maroon, once more giving in to the silky tendrils of renewed desire coursing through her veins like white flame.
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Early morning. He is in the kitchen, cooking for her. Sunbeams stream through from the high bay windows of the room, bearing down on the doctor, illuminating his profile with a light golden glow. Around his outline tiny particles of dust are caught within the beam's path, currents of slow, warm air causing them to move in a haphazard swirling pattern, colliding with each other like space dust. The coffee-pot on the stove has not yet begun to boil.
In the oven are fresh croissants, warming. The sleeves of Dr. Hannibal Lecter's white linen shirt are rolled up in preparation for the task of washing a bowl of fresh strawberries in the metal sink. Cool water runs over his hands that hold the plump fruits underneath a steady stream of clear liquid. After washing, he places them in a porcelain dish, which he leaves in the refrigerator to chill.
A medium sized mixing bowl on the marble counter contain five eggs, yolks swimming in the lighter, translucent albumin, their cracked half-shells neatly stacked together beside the smooth crystal of the bowl. He takes a large balloon whisk from the hanging rack overhead and whips the eggs until they are of a light, frothy consistency before beginning to work on the vegetables for the omelette.
Dr. Lecter peels a large onion by stripping away the first of its many layers including the paper thin skin, chopping it into tiny pieces and adding them to the eggs.
Stillness. A change in atmosphere. To this day he can never quite explain what it is that makes known to him her presence.
"Clarice."
He turns to behold her and as always, the breath is stolen from his throat.
Clarice.
A thousand and one memories attached to the soft syllables of that one word, beginning in the release of air from deep within his throat, a hard strike against the roof of his mouth, tongue drawing back anteriorly along the palate before exhaling, allowing his lips to caress a consonant and a vowel before ending in the sibilant hiss the last letters of her name makes. It echoes in the slanting of white golden sunlight onto the twisted plains of dark satin sheets, in the low, agonised gasp of a lover caught within the throes of either ecstasy or agony deep into the night when it is impossible to tell one from the other.
She wears nothing but his dress shirt from the Opera last night. It hangs loosely on her slender frame, slightly rumpled, gracing her with an elegantly dishevelled look that he finds impossible not to take notice of.
Dr. Lecter directs his attention to one of the red bell peppers as she slowly saunters her way towards him, the long expanse of her shapely legs barely hidden underneath the tail of the shirt. He knows she wears nothing else. The knife is sharp and he has no difficulty splitting the bright red vegetable into four pieces before separating the spicy seeds from the milder pulp and skin.
Making her way behind him, her right hand holding onto his, her index finger brushing against his where it rests against the blunt end of the knife. Starling reaches forward to place another bell pepper onto the wooden chopping board before left hand does the same to his other hand, fingers entwined. She rests her chin against his right shoulder affording a clear view of their hands.
Together, they slice through the vegetable, before Clarice Starling removes her hands from his and move them up his arms, to rest on his shoulders. Kneading them, she blows lightly on his neck, trailing mouth up to the lobe of his ear. Red lips nipping, flicking, kissing, leaving an equally red track on his pale skin as blood pools to the surface long enough to tint but not to mark. The sound of tapping on the board each slice he makes punctuated by a kiss from her.
Chop.
Kiss.
Chop.
Kiss.
Chop.
Kiss.
Kiss.
Kiss. . .
Hiss.
A sharp intake of breath, blood pouring out of a deep cut on his index finger, mixing with the juice of Capsicum annum grossum. Starling cradling his hand like a small animal before bringing into her mouth the precise spot where he had cut himself cooking for her. Then comes the tender pressure of suction on the wound, her eyes locking into his even as she takes within her a little of his life.
Blue into maroon. Perhaps a subtle narrowing of his, mouth parting slightly.
From the dry produce drawer near the sink, a bush red pepper. Capsicum frutescens. Chilli pepper on the chopping board, he looks at her oddly, not comprehending, and there are few things in this world Hannibal Lecter does not comprehend immediately. She places a kiss onto his jawline taking the knife from where it lay and slicing off the top and stem, exposing the fiery fruit's whitish seeds. So pale yet they contain all of the flame.
Starling strokes the open portion of the capsicum onto Dr. Lecter's mouth. Almost immediately, the heat cleaves to him, tiny bonfires in his veins flaring out from his lips into his brain, inflaming the senses. Pointed pink tongue darting out in a futile attempt to cool only to be burned by the icy-hot blaze. As a painter would, Starling brushed her own lips with the pepper before touching her hand to the back of his already warm neck and pulling his face down to hers for a brutal kiss. An ultimate mix of pleasure and pain sealed by a passion that transcends time and tide.
Still bleeding, he crushes her to him, his blood staining the pristine white shirt like the crimson petals of a burning rose.
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Three Years Earlier
Their relationship has a great deal to do with the penetration of Clarice Starling, which she avidly welcomes and encourages…
Hannibal Lecter did not make love to her. He explored her. He devoured her in a way most people would not have believed him capable. And she gloried in it. The feel of him, the scent of him, the taste of him. In her, on her, surrounding her, marking her. Most days, Clarice Starling wonders how she could ever have survived without knowing his touch. The rest of the time she wonders if she has gone mad to want this, the caress of a madman.
It has much to do with the envelopment of Hannibal Lecter, far beyond the bounds of his experience…
He is as a child with a new toy. And as all children are known to do, he explores it as frequently as he is allowed to, with the same amount of curiosity and indefatigable verve as a five year-old in a sweet shop. Having overcome his initial unfamiliarity with the territory, his innate capacity towards relentless perfectionism drove him to excel in this new art he found more remarkable and sensual than he had ever dreamed of as each day passed.
They lie together now, exhausted. He feels the cool sheets on his belly in contrast to his lover's warm form that cups him from behind. His left cheek is against the pillow and for some reason, the texture of the fabric is more pronounced after they complete a round of vigorous nocturnal activity.
"You're very beautiful, Clarice. I shall never tire of telling you that. Do you understand?" he murmurs into the plump, down-filled pillow beneath his head.
"Yes. Do you mean what you say?"
"I always do. Would you doubt me?"
"No. Never."
She pressed her lips into his back, pinching the tight knot of muscle between his shoulder and neck. Beneath her ear, the soft rumble of his breathing mixes with the rising growl from his chest.
It is possible that Clarice Starling could frighten him. Sex is a splendid structure they add to every day…
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In the silent twilight, under the glow of a pale moon, Clarice Starling sleeps deeply, sweetly, in the silence of the lambs.
But does she truly?
Within the midst of this near paradisiacal existence there remains a darker side to their story. . .
He sweeps aside the covers and slips out the bed, leaving the bedchamber soundlessly only to return in equal silence moments later, an ampoule of some unknown medication and a small syringe in his hand. The doctor breaks off the tip, and draws the liquid into the tube. He injects the serum into her hip. He sees it scrape, and then pierce the skin. She does not stir.
If one is ever presented the opportunity to peer closely, they can see the myriad of tiny pinpricks that dot a square inch of her body where the needle punctures it on a regular basis.
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TBC 1/? --