Sick
Title: Sick
Pairing: Hannibal/Clarice
Rating: NC-17
Summary: What does Clarice do when she's alone, late at night? Who does she think of? Movie-verse, takes place in the middle of Hannibal.
Warnings: Wank!fic. Unusual situation.
Disclaimer: If I owned this series in any way, shape or form, Hannibal would be young and gorgeous ALL THE TIME, and there would be sex.
Beta: Blueorca91
This is sick, she thinks, even as she lifts the tape player from where it sits atop the mess that is her desk and carries it across the room to the old couch that’s been her bed lately. But she’s done it before, and it’s almost easy for her. She’s already locked the door. She's usually quiet enough, and no one's there to hear her at this late hour, in this basement, anyway. This is wrong.
She places the tape player on the side table next to her makeshift bed, and slings the headphones over her ears. Leaning back on the couch, she presses play, and his voice cuts into the silence.
“Clarice Starling is a deep-roller. Let us hope one of her parents was not.”
And to hear him talking about her is like being pierced with a knife. This is sick, she thinks emphatically, even as she unbuttons her slacks and her clit sends a throb of longing rippling up through her gut.
“Do you think that Jack Crawford wants you sexually? True, he is much older but do you think he visualizes scenarios, exchanges, fucking you?”
She unzips her khakis and slides her hand down, pressing down firmly on her clit. She begins rubbing it, hard, as her eyes trail across the far wall. Nearly every inch of that surface features a picture of Hannibal, a clipping from a newspaper article about the horrors he perpetrated, people he killed, the x-ray of his broken arm. This is wrong.
And there’s the letter he wrote, just for her. Just so she would chase him.
“You use Evian skin cream, and sometimes you wear L'Air du Temps, but not today.”
This is so sick, she thinks, slipping her hand beneath her sensible underwear and between her folds. Recalling the way it felt, standing in that dank cell block while Hannibal tasted her in the air, across the space between them.
He would not smell skin cream or perfume on her now. Over the years she has come to appreciate functionality, and doesn’t bother with such things. She imagines him analyzing her scent now; soap and deodorant and her very obvious arousal. She wonders what he would think of it.
Now there’s a dangerous thought. How would he react if he knew? And he will, she thinks, if they ever speak face to face again. He might already have pieced it together, from just the sound of her voice over the phone, for the few brief moments before he hung up. To kill Inspector Pazzi.
And it’s so very wrong that she’s even wetter now, thinking she’s been found out. He probably does know. He’s always been able to see everything. She slides her slacks and cotton underwear down to her knees for easier access.
“You know how quickly the boys found you. All those tedious sticky fumblings in the back seats of cars while you could only dream of getting out. Getting anywhere. Getting all the way to the F. B. I.”
This is sick, this is wrong, even as she pushes two fingers inside herself, none too gently.
She tries to picture Hannibal young. She knows he would have been graceful, dignified, elegant. He would have carried himself with the lazy grace of a great cat, though none of this is so different from the Hannibal she knows. His hair would have been longer, thick and dark. She imagines the sharp eyes of a predator and a sharper tongue.
And even contemplating Hannibal’s tongue sends another pulse of arousal throbbing through her body and makes her twist her fingers inside just so. But even in a fantasy she is wary of his teeth, so she tucks that train of thought away for another time. Perhaps when she’s feeling particularly masochistic.
“Dear Clarice,” She recites, her voice coming out as something halfway between a whisper and a whimper, overlapping with Hannibal's stronger and clearer voice. “I have followed with enthusiasm the course of your disgrace and public shaming.” And she tries to imagine him moving above her, his cock buried inside her, just to make this fantasy a little more conventional. But it’s never worked, not once, and she’s tried so many times. The image, the whole idea, just seems so unnatural.
This is sick.
And she pictures that first time she saw him, the way he stood perfectly centered in his cage, patiently waiting for her. Waiting for her, and he was still in complete control of her every action. Pictures him shrouded in the shadows, leaning against the stone wall of his cell, that second time she went to see him. Pictures him turning around in his office chair in Memphis, with the guards right there in the room, probably heard every word that was said.
Fuck, she thinks, thumbing her clit harder and faster, fucking wrong, and grits out “how do we begin to covet, Clarice? Do we seek out things to covet?”
She puts up no resistance to picturing him lunging forward suddenly, in that video, tearing into the nurse's face with his clever teeth. Being pulling off of her, blood running down his chin. Puts up no resistance, though she knows she should. Sick, sick, wrong.
“What became of your lamb, Clarice?” She moans. “You still wake up sometimes, don’t you? I think your success in putting an end to Jame Gumb's career as a couturier pleased you most because you could imagine your father being pleased. But now, alas, you're in bad odour with the FBI.”
And she scratches, drags her nails over the sensitive skin just next to her clit, and presses three fingers inside her this time.
“Our Billy wasn't born a killer, Clarice. Oh no, he was made one through years of systematic abuse. Go to the personality tests, study their drawings.”
And his voice is still right there at her ear, and she imagines she can feel him breathing there, too, just centimeters away from touching her. She pries her eyes open to look at his face on the far wall, at the drawing he sent her. "I have no plans to call on you, Clarice. The world is more interesting with you in it." She stumbles over the words, her mind beginning to overload.
She presses another finger inside, slides them in and out, fast and firm.
“You fly home now, little Starling. Fly, fly, fly.”
This time, she enunciates every syllable carefully, very close now, harder to speak. “Is this coincidence, or are you back on the case? If so, goody goody, because I need to come out of retirement and return to public life.” She rocks her thumb back and forth on her aching clit, slams her eyes shut. She thinks of how he killed Miggs for her, just for her, for the offense perpetrated on her by Miggs. She can feel the brush of his finger over hers as she took the case file, knows it was carefully calculated, knows he was in complete control. This. Is. Wrong.
She fails to stay quiet as she comes, hard, lightning tearing across her eyelids and her hips bucking up off the couch, screaming out “people will say we’re in love.”
As she slowly comes back down, utterly exhausted, she mumbles between heavy, panting breaths. “...covet what we see every day… Clarice, your case file… ate his liver… Is this… Clarice? Why… hello Clarice... look like a rube. Nothing I'd love… more in the world than… to chat with you. Well-scrubbed, hustling rube… a little taste. Your job is to… craft my doom. So… not sure how well I should… wish you… but I'm sure we'll have a lot of fun. Goody… goody.” Sick. Her breathing is just returning to normal, her eyes are starting to flutter open. I’m sick. His voice cuts in again, drawing her out of the afterglow.
"Do you think it's because I like to look at you, and imagine how good you would taste, Clarice?"
She shuts the tape player off, and throws the headphones down on the table. As she pulls her pants back up and closed, turning over on the couch to sleep, she recalls a piece of advice given to her by Crawford those ten years ago, and thinks she should have been a better listener.
“Believe me, you don't want Hannibal Lecter inside your head.”
Pairing: Hannibal/Clarice
Rating: NC-17
Summary: What does Clarice do when she's alone, late at night? Who does she think of? Movie-verse, takes place in the middle of Hannibal.
Warnings: Wank!fic. Unusual situation.
Disclaimer: If I owned this series in any way, shape or form, Hannibal would be young and gorgeous ALL THE TIME, and there would be sex.
Beta: Blueorca91
This is sick, she thinks, even as she lifts the tape player from where it sits atop the mess that is her desk and carries it across the room to the old couch that’s been her bed lately. But she’s done it before, and it’s almost easy for her. She’s already locked the door. She's usually quiet enough, and no one's there to hear her at this late hour, in this basement, anyway. This is wrong.
She places the tape player on the side table next to her makeshift bed, and slings the headphones over her ears. Leaning back on the couch, she presses play, and his voice cuts into the silence.
“Clarice Starling is a deep-roller. Let us hope one of her parents was not.”
And to hear him talking about her is like being pierced with a knife. This is sick, she thinks emphatically, even as she unbuttons her slacks and her clit sends a throb of longing rippling up through her gut.
“Do you think that Jack Crawford wants you sexually? True, he is much older but do you think he visualizes scenarios, exchanges, fucking you?”
She unzips her khakis and slides her hand down, pressing down firmly on her clit. She begins rubbing it, hard, as her eyes trail across the far wall. Nearly every inch of that surface features a picture of Hannibal, a clipping from a newspaper article about the horrors he perpetrated, people he killed, the x-ray of his broken arm. This is wrong.
And there’s the letter he wrote, just for her. Just so she would chase him.
“You use Evian skin cream, and sometimes you wear L'Air du Temps, but not today.”
This is so sick, she thinks, slipping her hand beneath her sensible underwear and between her folds. Recalling the way it felt, standing in that dank cell block while Hannibal tasted her in the air, across the space between them.
He would not smell skin cream or perfume on her now. Over the years she has come to appreciate functionality, and doesn’t bother with such things. She imagines him analyzing her scent now; soap and deodorant and her very obvious arousal. She wonders what he would think of it.
Now there’s a dangerous thought. How would he react if he knew? And he will, she thinks, if they ever speak face to face again. He might already have pieced it together, from just the sound of her voice over the phone, for the few brief moments before he hung up. To kill Inspector Pazzi.
And it’s so very wrong that she’s even wetter now, thinking she’s been found out. He probably does know. He’s always been able to see everything. She slides her slacks and cotton underwear down to her knees for easier access.
“You know how quickly the boys found you. All those tedious sticky fumblings in the back seats of cars while you could only dream of getting out. Getting anywhere. Getting all the way to the F. B. I.”
This is sick, this is wrong, even as she pushes two fingers inside herself, none too gently.
She tries to picture Hannibal young. She knows he would have been graceful, dignified, elegant. He would have carried himself with the lazy grace of a great cat, though none of this is so different from the Hannibal she knows. His hair would have been longer, thick and dark. She imagines the sharp eyes of a predator and a sharper tongue.
And even contemplating Hannibal’s tongue sends another pulse of arousal throbbing through her body and makes her twist her fingers inside just so. But even in a fantasy she is wary of his teeth, so she tucks that train of thought away for another time. Perhaps when she’s feeling particularly masochistic.
“Dear Clarice,” She recites, her voice coming out as something halfway between a whisper and a whimper, overlapping with Hannibal's stronger and clearer voice. “I have followed with enthusiasm the course of your disgrace and public shaming.” And she tries to imagine him moving above her, his cock buried inside her, just to make this fantasy a little more conventional. But it’s never worked, not once, and she’s tried so many times. The image, the whole idea, just seems so unnatural.
This is sick.
And she pictures that first time she saw him, the way he stood perfectly centered in his cage, patiently waiting for her. Waiting for her, and he was still in complete control of her every action. Pictures him shrouded in the shadows, leaning against the stone wall of his cell, that second time she went to see him. Pictures him turning around in his office chair in Memphis, with the guards right there in the room, probably heard every word that was said.
Fuck, she thinks, thumbing her clit harder and faster, fucking wrong, and grits out “how do we begin to covet, Clarice? Do we seek out things to covet?”
She puts up no resistance to picturing him lunging forward suddenly, in that video, tearing into the nurse's face with his clever teeth. Being pulling off of her, blood running down his chin. Puts up no resistance, though she knows she should. Sick, sick, wrong.
“What became of your lamb, Clarice?” She moans. “You still wake up sometimes, don’t you? I think your success in putting an end to Jame Gumb's career as a couturier pleased you most because you could imagine your father being pleased. But now, alas, you're in bad odour with the FBI.”
And she scratches, drags her nails over the sensitive skin just next to her clit, and presses three fingers inside her this time.
“Our Billy wasn't born a killer, Clarice. Oh no, he was made one through years of systematic abuse. Go to the personality tests, study their drawings.”
And his voice is still right there at her ear, and she imagines she can feel him breathing there, too, just centimeters away from touching her. She pries her eyes open to look at his face on the far wall, at the drawing he sent her. "I have no plans to call on you, Clarice. The world is more interesting with you in it." She stumbles over the words, her mind beginning to overload.
She presses another finger inside, slides them in and out, fast and firm.
“You fly home now, little Starling. Fly, fly, fly.”
This time, she enunciates every syllable carefully, very close now, harder to speak. “Is this coincidence, or are you back on the case? If so, goody goody, because I need to come out of retirement and return to public life.” She rocks her thumb back and forth on her aching clit, slams her eyes shut. She thinks of how he killed Miggs for her, just for her, for the offense perpetrated on her by Miggs. She can feel the brush of his finger over hers as she took the case file, knows it was carefully calculated, knows he was in complete control. This. Is. Wrong.
She fails to stay quiet as she comes, hard, lightning tearing across her eyelids and her hips bucking up off the couch, screaming out “people will say we’re in love.”
As she slowly comes back down, utterly exhausted, she mumbles between heavy, panting breaths. “...covet what we see every day… Clarice, your case file… ate his liver… Is this… Clarice? Why… hello Clarice... look like a rube. Nothing I'd love… more in the world than… to chat with you. Well-scrubbed, hustling rube… a little taste. Your job is to… craft my doom. So… not sure how well I should… wish you… but I'm sure we'll have a lot of fun. Goody… goody.” Sick. Her breathing is just returning to normal, her eyes are starting to flutter open. I’m sick. His voice cuts in again, drawing her out of the afterglow.
"Do you think it's because I like to look at you, and imagine how good you would taste, Clarice?"
She shuts the tape player off, and throws the headphones down on the table. As she pulls her pants back up and closed, turning over on the couch to sleep, she recalls a piece of advice given to her by Crawford those ten years ago, and thinks she should have been a better listener.
“Believe me, you don't want Hannibal Lecter inside your head.”