#ilmxstro

Touches are to be measured — and if life could be compared to a harpsichord’s notes, ringing in absolution with no variance of volume, then the human body was a piano. Gentle touches rendered softer notes, though these quiet, subtle accents to the piece could hold just as much gravity to them as the bold, deafening roar of the crescendo. Though, poised over Starling with the Argentinian dusk bleeding in through off-white drapes, he parted his mouth from her bosom and left where he once was an aubergine mark, just above her hot, beating heart.

He hovered there a moment, looking at her pale, freckled face surrounded by a halo of red hair, as if she were God’s flaming sword — an angel composed of salt and earth and blood and anger.

Hannibal is mercurial — a small sentient instance of whimsical chaos — and so he is able to change his form, his face, his personage. Tender romance scented like rose petals and fine wine drained from the tension in his muscles and was replaced with a black passion that felt, within, something akin to the sensation of slicing into a human specimen to harvest muscle and sinew for consumption. Just as she did with the late Paul Krendler of the Justice Department, she now asked for more.

In a flash, his hand found her throat and applied a degree of pressure that restricted no flow of air, but would leave a short-lived mark like the brand of Kain around her jugular veins. With his thumb against her chin, he pushed her head back and exposed the soft flesh between chin and throat and scraped his predator’s teeth down the slope of it. Pressure: a hand on the inside of her knee, bringing it up where it could rest against the plane between his waist and hip.

                                                 ”Mio piacere.” 

  most, should they know that the agent still lived, would believe wholeheartedly that clarice m. starling was playing a more than dangerous game in this instant. however, there was absolutely no way that the redhead could feel even a shred of remorse. it was as if the ability had been forgotten by her, && in some form or another, it had been. these moments were ones of which she thrived on, giving him some semblance of control, all the while still having some of her own. she was not one to be easily broken. she was small, of course. this did not by any means make her fragile.

she could feel the heat bellowing within her, a fire growing in the pit of her stomach--arousal seemingly-eternal. this was made even more intense by the feeling of the sun on her pale flesh, coral && cream being melted in golden flames. her words came in a sweet southern splendor, demanding && permitting all the same. she needed it, but did not know for certain why in that instant. starling made the executive decision not to question what could be a very good thing for them both.

his hands were on her quicker than she had anticipated, the sensations which came of these little acts unfathomable && incapable of being put into a series of comprehensive words. she found herself enthralled by those skillful digits clamped around her throat. she swallowed hard for a moment, eyes slipping shut as she felt his monstrous, pearly whites against her flesh. she quivered with anticipation as soon as he touched her leg, arching into him the moment he repositioned her. her heart was rampant within her chest, a carnal desire swallowing her whole as he would should she give him cause. her mouth gaped open, lips full && modestly painted silent for no longer than a second or two. a random spurt of a spanish swear word fell from those lips, foul-mouthed as ever. she knew far more profanity in this tongue than in italian . . . which she would have to change soon.                                                                   "mierda!" 

after the longest of moments, she managed to let those blue hues of hers to open again, locking instantly with his. as those all-too mischievous blues connect with lecter's hypnotic maroons, she lets one of her own hands go to the nape of neck, grasping their even more roughly than he did her own. the other hand found its place gripping valiantly onto bedsheets. she would need to do so if she were to keep any composure about herself, it slowly dwindling away.

           "in in questo modo, il mio amore mostruoso..."

ilmxstro 

† ∞ ςμ§  It has been told time and time again. Tales of fear, tales which are told in order to scare us into keeping what is most carnal and perverse locked away within our innermost selves for the entirety of our days. However, there are, undoubtedly, those who chose to let their true natures, the darkness which would forever shut out any light, to come forth, to take hold and guide them. Clarice was not one of these people. In fact, many could not even begin to fathom that she even possessed such a thing. She had been the good girl, with a good girl for a friend, and an explorer for a father. No one would guess the future that had been predestined for her, should one believe that such a thing was irrefutable truth.

† ∞ ςμ§ That day, as she had many a time before, Clarice watched—forlorn—as her father left yet again on one of his expeditions. Only, now, she was much older, and had grown accustomed to the departure. It no longer had been one of the things which left her with a gaping hole in her heart. The same could not be said about her past love—the one she had thought would become her suitable husband. He was not her beloved—or at the least he did not want to be. As heartbroken as that left her, one could never tell it by glancing upon her face whenever it was brought up; which thankfully for her had been seldom. As her father left, a solitary tear fell down her pale cheek. Although, there was no other reaction to this very moment aside from that single salty drop of liquid. Oh how those cheeks would change soon, oh how they would be tainted by blood.

† ∞ ςμ§ Days had passed since the little bird of a girl—no longer so little—watched as her father became another one of those whom felt a deep desire to go to places not many dared to. She was not surprised that she had not heard from him. On occasion, should the family be so lucky, he would be able to send a letter or two. However, most times he was not able to offer dictation upon thick and cheap paper he would take with him along with the ink he had bought long ago. This was one of those times in which the odds would not be in their favor, and he would not be able to write. He would be gone for a year, and she—hopefully—would be ready to wed yet again by the time he got be. Oh yes, Clarice would be a bride. Alas, she would not be the kind of bride she and her mother had envisioned her eyes. She would be embraced by the darkness of none other than Hannibal Lecter.

† ∞ ςμ§ Blue eyes glance out her bedroom window, almost as if she watched the world go by from that window throughout the day. The view, while miraculous in its own right, was no comparison to the true captivating nature that the entirety of the world could provide. Starling, unlike her father, would never be able to know that with such intimacy as he. Soon enough, though, she would be given a rare opportunity to gaze at a part of the universe only viewed by the most tainted and blackened of souls. After all, this world hidden belonged to the darkness for a reason. For if they were to come to a place of which they could be looked upon by one another—the dark and the light—it would be an awakening of destruction comparable to the days’ end. If indeed the apocalypse is as the Holy Bible—or any religious testimonial—says.

† ∞ ςμ§ Finding nothing of self-interest within her home, the penny dreadfuls becoming nothing more than dreadfully boring to her after so many repetitions of reading, Clarice decides to leave her home and the entire property all together to go on her own adventure. She makes the mistake, however, of insisting upon going without an escort. Usually, this is what she did. Usually, it was not a mistake. As it pertains to the sanctification of her soul, this solo act of venturing into territory un-roamed was indeed an error of judgment. Though, dear Clarice would not know this right away—not until much later, when it is much too late. After all, one must always bear in mind the all too chilling fact that once the sun is no longer in the sky, and the darkness and soullessness of night take hold—it is then and only then when the universe’s true monstrosities come out from the shadow lands to stretch their legs, to feed their appetites.

† ∞ ςμ§ Feet, though most often more than capable of clumsiness equitable to that of a drunken bar maiden, carry her in a sturdy and almost graceful fashion. It was indeed all about appearances in London, wasn’t it? Everyone did tend to look their best. However, unlike most—whose refusal to let even a hair of place was viewed as the norm and not snobbish—clarice did not care that she had some tendrils of flames falling from the bun she had hastily put it in nearly an hour before. Nor did she care about how nice her dress was—even if it was one of her best ones, a beautiful deep emerald green which seemed to only make those auburn locks look more like flames. With the rest of her ensemble being predominately black, her alabaster skin stood out even more than usual.

† ∞ ςμ§ What she did seem to take interest in was a very unfamiliar face coming into her view. Hannibal Lecter was not like her former sweetheart. He did not have that facial hair she had fancied when she was younger, but the eyes within his head were all too entrancing to let such a petty thing get in the way of introducing herself to him. Only a few more steps followed the thought, the desire, to go to him before she was standing right before him, blissfully unaware of what he was, and what she would become to him. She cannot help but to be courteous enough to offer him a slight head bow to him in greeting. Curtsying was not an act she favored, despite it being, as she observed, a customary thing. Clarice Starling, however, was nothing close to customary.

It would probably be good for the Master to know what she was up against. Probably. Unfortunately, she had not the slightest idea. What she did know was that the area had had a rather unfortunate number of extremely creative terrible murders recently. Truly unfortunate. Yes, that was certainly the word. 

If she were to claim research purposes, waving around her falsified degree, she felt certain she would be turned away. Paying client it would be, then, and improvise from there. An exasperating amount of dedication, to be sure, but the Master did find like minds ever so fascinating, and the psychiatrist seemed the simplest way to insert herself into the situation and sniff out the brilliant terrible mind behind it.

' -- yeah, i'm a little troubled. a little fucked up. '

the one thing notable is how he's able to look doctor lecter dead in the eye as he talks, showing no ounce of fear. he props his chin up on his palm and sighs through his nose, dark brows furrowing as he thinks. he's supposed to be telling doctor lecter just what was wrong with him.

There weren’t many places in which she felt safe. She often found herself flicking through places mentally to find one, a task which took much too long. Doctor Lecter’s office was one of those places. What was said there remained between them – it was some of the very little information that her brother couldn’t get, no matter how hard he tried. She was grateful for that.

     One subject was often on the mind of Margot Verger. It was one that came up in conversation between the two most weeks, not that she minded. She did find it odd that it wasn’t something her psychiatrist was trying to discourage, but she was grateful for that. His advice, had he decided to sit on the other side of the fence, probably would have gone unheeded in the long run.

     While Doctor Lecter had taken his usual seat, Margot had elected to stand. She preferred to be able to stand, to walk, to move freely. Margot had remained as such for most of their session, but she found it was about time she sat opposite the doctor.