Amaranthine
Adamant Anti-Nihilist
~BHM, ~BBW, ~~WG, stuffing, explicit, romance, thriller, fan-fic
[Author's Note: Even though fan-fic is generally not thought of as favorably here, I thought I'd give it a shot. Perhaps appropriate for the Halloween season, this is genuinely a thriller. Or tries to be. There are some notes of non-consent and the plot-line generally matches what might expect of the genre. It won't be a lot of people's cup of tea, but I figure I can't be the only FFA into Lecter.]
Chapter 1:
Clarices eyes flashed open, her dilated pupils melted into the darkness surrounding her. Morning hadnt yet come; the light of her alarm clock glowed a hot 4:37am. Her cheeks were flushed with a cold sweat, the chill gradually permeating the rest of her body. The room lingered untouched, silent, saturated with a sense of stillness. There was a time she had thought that sleep was her sanctuary, but now peace eluded her unconsciousness as well. Pulling the blankets closer around her, Clarice evaluated her current headspace.
She had dreamt about him again. Two years later and he was still in her head. Isnt that exactly what Crawford had warned her about? But he certainly didnt mean it like this, now did he? (Of course not.) Her memories of their meetings were still clear in her mind, though considering their daily regurgitation that should come as no surprise. Typically, a handful of thoughts would get snagged as they ran through her mind. Solitary glimpses of the experience. His unfaltering gaze, suspiciously stolid composure, the stone cold sharpness of his words which had calculated her to the core.
Although he never had the chance to touch her always restrained, restricted she felt completely penetrated by him. Her defenses tattered like tissue paper in his presence, as if his mere existence made the continuation of time caustic. She found it almost impossible to resist. At least by daylight she had the control to commandeer her thoughts through a labyrinthine facsimile of past reality. But during sleep, her mind dove into dreams that betrayed the deviations of her imagination.
Finding no comfort within her tight cocoon of covers, Clarice scooted to the side of the bed and clicked on her bedside lamp. Her eyes drank in the mundane surroundings, which somehow appeared even more ordinary in the artificial light. Gradually, the hot breath gushing through her lips slowed. This scene wasnt terribly uncommon at this point, though familiarity bred no peace of mind. The wanderings of her unguarded mind continually caught her off guard and she felt nearly as defenseless as she had under his brief surveillance.
More than anything, her fascination baffled her. Even ignoring his sociopathic status (as much as anyone could, anyway,) she had no business being attracted to him. She had a type; he was not it. Oddly, it was satisfying to harbor something so significant that he hadnt had access to. Then, why should he have? Things like that had no place in their interactions. The spark she perceived existed only in her mind, surely having entangled itself somewhere within the chain of reiterations produced by her over-analytical mind.
Having regrouped sufficiently, Clarice flicked off the light and returned to the full shelter of her bed sheets. She took solace in her now-assured solitude, yet knew this feeling would be as ephemeral as her waning consciousness. Soon her mind slithered into scenes of the two of them together, alone. This time they both sat at a table, an array of decadent dishes filling the space between them. His taste for fine things had been unmistakable; the detailed opulence of his drawings along with the nuance contained within his memory proved every note of his echoed legacy true. She now stared dumbfounded, almost mesmerized by the glistening of butter on lobster, the sweet bouquet of fresh baked bread, the ambrosiac decadence of pasta bathed in wine, oil, and herbs.
Hannibal ripped off a piece of warm baguette, letting it cool gently in his hand before meticulously swirling it in oil. His gaze met hers as he tucked the bread into his mouth and savored momentarily.
Are you not hungry, Clarice?
Her name stuck to his lips, steaming off slowly as his voice dissipated into the air.
Though doubting her competence at speech, she knew it would be unspeakably rude to not answer.
Not at the current moment, Dr. Lecter. He eyed her curiously, perhaps even slightly amused.
I was She faltered slightly, immediately regretting her reluctance knowing full well he would notice it. The remnants of her West Virginian accent rang unpleasantly in her ear.
Hoping for the pleasure of watching you for a bit, actually.
Oh, is that so? Locking eyes with him, Clarice held her ground. She refused to appear vulnerable to him, to let him detect the doubt that surged beneath her cool countenance. If now wasnt the time to be bold, then when would?
Very much so, ever so lightly flourishing the statement with a smirk.
Well, I suppose that isnt too much trouble, now is it Clarice?
Her name once again burned upon his mouth, quickly to be quashed by another piece of bread. While he finished chewing, a mouthful of linguine twirled around his fork, gleaming in the candlelight before disappearing into his mouth. He inhaled sharply, clearly impressed by the sophistication of the sauce. The citric aroma of the pinot mingled with the garlic infused oil perfectly. What else? A hint of black pepper and sea salt, a spritz of fresh lemon, and he thought perhaps a spicy sweet note of thyme gracing the end. Oh, how divine.
Before long, more than half the meal had disappeared. The doctor now appeared significantly more sedated, languidly indulging himself with periodic forkfuls. A bottle of wine had quickly evaporated between the two of them, lulling him deeper into an imminent food coma.
Why Clarice, if you continue to abstain I may have to take offense. Does the meal not suit you? He watched her intently as he continued.
I myself am quite fond of it.
Hannibal observed as her eyes subtly flit between the symphony of empty planes adorning the table and his near overly full stomach. After a slight stretch, he nestled his hands against his taut sides.
But I suppose that detail did not escape you he trailed off, rubbing his stomach lightly.
Wordlessly, Clarice picked up her own fork and speared a bite of lobster for herself. As the rich flavor melted over her taste buds, she pondered just how many calories hed just consumed. She felt her nipples harden against her dress.
Is that a blush I see, Clarice? Why ever might that be?
Not quite ready to reveal the truth, she concocted a quick lie. But really, she had no desire to speak the truth to him whatsoever. After all, what kind of brilliant psychiatrist couldnt dissect this little quirk?
Ive just had a little too much wine, Dr. Lecter. Maybe you ought to finish off the second bottle.
Maybe, he smiled at her knowingly.
Definitely, she whispered as she poured him another glass.
Suddenly, a sharp sound shattered the situation she had become so invested in. This time, her eyes opened to daylight and she fumbled around her nightstand until the alarm shut off. Ignoring the hot stickiness of her inner thighs, Clarice crawled out of bed and prepared herself for another morning in the FBI. Crawford hinted that a new case would be waiting for her. With any luck, it would be something a bit more high profile than the drivel shed been dealing with for the past couple years. But then, what wouldnt pale in comparison to her first case? She stepped into the shower, hoping for something consuming enough to eclipse the mark that Lecter had left.
[Author's Note: Even though fan-fic is generally not thought of as favorably here, I thought I'd give it a shot. Perhaps appropriate for the Halloween season, this is genuinely a thriller. Or tries to be. There are some notes of non-consent and the plot-line generally matches what might expect of the genre. It won't be a lot of people's cup of tea, but I figure I can't be the only FFA into Lecter.]
Decadence and Dismay
By Amaranthine
By Amaranthine
Chapter 1:
Clarices eyes flashed open, her dilated pupils melted into the darkness surrounding her. Morning hadnt yet come; the light of her alarm clock glowed a hot 4:37am. Her cheeks were flushed with a cold sweat, the chill gradually permeating the rest of her body. The room lingered untouched, silent, saturated with a sense of stillness. There was a time she had thought that sleep was her sanctuary, but now peace eluded her unconsciousness as well. Pulling the blankets closer around her, Clarice evaluated her current headspace.
She had dreamt about him again. Two years later and he was still in her head. Isnt that exactly what Crawford had warned her about? But he certainly didnt mean it like this, now did he? (Of course not.) Her memories of their meetings were still clear in her mind, though considering their daily regurgitation that should come as no surprise. Typically, a handful of thoughts would get snagged as they ran through her mind. Solitary glimpses of the experience. His unfaltering gaze, suspiciously stolid composure, the stone cold sharpness of his words which had calculated her to the core.
Although he never had the chance to touch her always restrained, restricted she felt completely penetrated by him. Her defenses tattered like tissue paper in his presence, as if his mere existence made the continuation of time caustic. She found it almost impossible to resist. At least by daylight she had the control to commandeer her thoughts through a labyrinthine facsimile of past reality. But during sleep, her mind dove into dreams that betrayed the deviations of her imagination.
Finding no comfort within her tight cocoon of covers, Clarice scooted to the side of the bed and clicked on her bedside lamp. Her eyes drank in the mundane surroundings, which somehow appeared even more ordinary in the artificial light. Gradually, the hot breath gushing through her lips slowed. This scene wasnt terribly uncommon at this point, though familiarity bred no peace of mind. The wanderings of her unguarded mind continually caught her off guard and she felt nearly as defenseless as she had under his brief surveillance.
More than anything, her fascination baffled her. Even ignoring his sociopathic status (as much as anyone could, anyway,) she had no business being attracted to him. She had a type; he was not it. Oddly, it was satisfying to harbor something so significant that he hadnt had access to. Then, why should he have? Things like that had no place in their interactions. The spark she perceived existed only in her mind, surely having entangled itself somewhere within the chain of reiterations produced by her over-analytical mind.
Having regrouped sufficiently, Clarice flicked off the light and returned to the full shelter of her bed sheets. She took solace in her now-assured solitude, yet knew this feeling would be as ephemeral as her waning consciousness. Soon her mind slithered into scenes of the two of them together, alone. This time they both sat at a table, an array of decadent dishes filling the space between them. His taste for fine things had been unmistakable; the detailed opulence of his drawings along with the nuance contained within his memory proved every note of his echoed legacy true. She now stared dumbfounded, almost mesmerized by the glistening of butter on lobster, the sweet bouquet of fresh baked bread, the ambrosiac decadence of pasta bathed in wine, oil, and herbs.
Hannibal ripped off a piece of warm baguette, letting it cool gently in his hand before meticulously swirling it in oil. His gaze met hers as he tucked the bread into his mouth and savored momentarily.
Are you not hungry, Clarice?
Her name stuck to his lips, steaming off slowly as his voice dissipated into the air.
Though doubting her competence at speech, she knew it would be unspeakably rude to not answer.
Not at the current moment, Dr. Lecter. He eyed her curiously, perhaps even slightly amused.
I was She faltered slightly, immediately regretting her reluctance knowing full well he would notice it. The remnants of her West Virginian accent rang unpleasantly in her ear.
Hoping for the pleasure of watching you for a bit, actually.
Oh, is that so? Locking eyes with him, Clarice held her ground. She refused to appear vulnerable to him, to let him detect the doubt that surged beneath her cool countenance. If now wasnt the time to be bold, then when would?
Very much so, ever so lightly flourishing the statement with a smirk.
Well, I suppose that isnt too much trouble, now is it Clarice?
Her name once again burned upon his mouth, quickly to be quashed by another piece of bread. While he finished chewing, a mouthful of linguine twirled around his fork, gleaming in the candlelight before disappearing into his mouth. He inhaled sharply, clearly impressed by the sophistication of the sauce. The citric aroma of the pinot mingled with the garlic infused oil perfectly. What else? A hint of black pepper and sea salt, a spritz of fresh lemon, and he thought perhaps a spicy sweet note of thyme gracing the end. Oh, how divine.
Before long, more than half the meal had disappeared. The doctor now appeared significantly more sedated, languidly indulging himself with periodic forkfuls. A bottle of wine had quickly evaporated between the two of them, lulling him deeper into an imminent food coma.
Why Clarice, if you continue to abstain I may have to take offense. Does the meal not suit you? He watched her intently as he continued.
I myself am quite fond of it.
Hannibal observed as her eyes subtly flit between the symphony of empty planes adorning the table and his near overly full stomach. After a slight stretch, he nestled his hands against his taut sides.
But I suppose that detail did not escape you he trailed off, rubbing his stomach lightly.
Wordlessly, Clarice picked up her own fork and speared a bite of lobster for herself. As the rich flavor melted over her taste buds, she pondered just how many calories hed just consumed. She felt her nipples harden against her dress.
Is that a blush I see, Clarice? Why ever might that be?
Not quite ready to reveal the truth, she concocted a quick lie. But really, she had no desire to speak the truth to him whatsoever. After all, what kind of brilliant psychiatrist couldnt dissect this little quirk?
Ive just had a little too much wine, Dr. Lecter. Maybe you ought to finish off the second bottle.
Maybe, he smiled at her knowingly.
Definitely, she whispered as she poured him another glass.
Suddenly, a sharp sound shattered the situation she had become so invested in. This time, her eyes opened to daylight and she fumbled around her nightstand until the alarm shut off. Ignoring the hot stickiness of her inner thighs, Clarice crawled out of bed and prepared herself for another morning in the FBI. Crawford hinted that a new case would be waiting for her. With any luck, it would be something a bit more high profile than the drivel shed been dealing with for the past couple years. But then, what wouldnt pale in comparison to her first case? She stepped into the shower, hoping for something consuming enough to eclipse the mark that Lecter had left.
