hannibal lecter

The room was still and quiet, the kind of quiet that hummed in your ears. Morning light filtered weakly through the curtains, and the warmth of Hannibal’s body wrapped around you like a heavy, living blanket. He was warm even in sleep, chest rising slow and steady, face slack with the kind of calm he never showed you when awake.

You were the first to stir. Rare. Dangerous.

And then you felt it — the steady press of morning’s familiar weight against your hip. The corners of your lips curled, wicked. After all the torment he had dealt you last night — feather-light touches, cruel patience, the way he’d left you trembling and unsatisfied before closing his eyes — it felt only fair. Retribution.

Sliding down under the covers, you let your hand drift lower. Just a brush at first. Testing.

He stirred almost immediately. A low sound slipped from his chest, not quite a groan, more like acknowledgment. His eyes cracked open, heavy-lidded and hazy, and he caught you there, hand curling around him.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Just looked at you with that unreadable gaze. Then his lips curved into something dangerous, smug even in its subtlety.

“So bold,” he murmured, voice thick with sleep, smooth despite its rasp. “I must have taught you well.”

You grinned against his thigh. “Someone has to keep you on your toes.”

“Mm,” he hummed, shifting lazily, as if to get comfortable. The small movement stole your rhythm, forcing you to readjust. He didn’t stop you, but the faint smirk playing on his lips told you that he knew he’d already made you stumble.

But what shocked you immediately is that he wasn’t stopping you, taking control. He was allowing this. A rare gift, and one you intended to savour.

You pressed harder, determined, and he rewarded you with the barest hitch of breath — so small you almost missed it. But his eyes never left yours, and his calm composure mocked every ounce of effort you put in.

“You’ve improved,” he said softly, indulgent, as though he were giving you credit for an exam you hadn’t passed. “Imitation does flatter.”

Your smugness faltered. That calm tone — teasing, but not rattled. You leaned in, tried a different angle, a firmer grip, the tricks you’d learned from his own hands on your body. Surely, surely you could drag more from him.

And yet — he only sighed, low and deliberate, like a man stretching after a long sleep. “Better,” he murmured, eyes slipping half-shut again. “Almost convincing.”

Almost.

Your jaw tightened. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Of course,” he replied smoothly, utterly unbothered. “You’re entertaining when you try so hard.” His tone dripped with condescension, gentle but cutting. “So eager. So sure of yourself…Clever boy.”

Your smug little thrill soured into frustration. You wanted to unravel him, wanted to see him lose that composure even for a second. Instead, he gave you just enough to keep you wanting — a twitch of his hips, a quiet sound in the back of his throat, the subtle tension of muscle beneath your touch. All deliberate. All offered like scraps.

And you took them. Desperate for more.

“Patience,” Hannibal whispered, voice curling like smoke, velvet-soft even as it mocked. His hand slid lazily across your back, pressing just enough to remind you who held the leash. “You tug at the leash, but you’re still tethered.”

You squeezed harder, sped up, tried every trick you could. You saw his brow furrow, his lips part with a shallow breath, but it was measured, given. Allowed. He wasn’t unraveling. He wasn’t even close.

“Good,” he said softly, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. “Keep trying.”

You wanted to scream. You wanted to make him gasp, wanted to force a break in that damn composure — but Hannibal Lecter didn’t break. He let you think you were close, let you taste it, then pulled it away with nothing more than a calm breath or a mocking smile.

And it dawned on you, with a flush of heat that was equal parts arousal and frustration: even when he gave you this indulgence, even half-asleep, even letting you touch him however you pleased — he was still in control. He would always be in control. He wouldn’t reward you with a crack in his composure until you stopped pretending to be in control, until you gave in to your natural state, which was submission.

His voice was barely above a whisper when it reached you again. “Don’t stop now. You’re doing so well.”

It was praise. It was mockery. It was everything he knew would keep you pushing, keep you desperate for a reaction he would never give freely.

And beneath the covers, with his calm smile and infuriating composure, Hannibal let you play your little game — because he liked it. Because he liked watching you try, watching you burn against the unshakable wall of his control.

Because he knew, as you finally realized with a mix of rage and need, that he would always win.