hannibal lecter

You were trying to be gentle—careful with the weight of your body, mindful of his thigh wound and the broken arm strapped to his side—but Hannibal made it very clear he didn’t want your mercy.

Not now.

Not when he was like this—wrecked, woozy, soaked in his own blood and laughing as you sank down onto his cock.

“Yesss,” he hissed, good hand gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. “That’s it. Don’t you dare be sweet with me. Not now.”

You whimpered as he filled you, thick and impossibly hot despite everything. You had to brace your hands against his chest, careful of the cracked ribs you’d only just bandaged. His skin was clammy with sweat. His mouth hung open, eyes glassy with blood loss and lust.

“You shouldn’t even be hard,” you panted, voice cracking. “You’re—fucking dying—”

“And you’re riding me,” Hannibal cut in, voice thick and ragged. “Which means I win.”

You gasped as he flexed his hips—just a twitch, but it dragged his cock deeper into you, and the raw stretch of it made your legs tremble.

He let out a guttural moan, head dropping back against the cushion. His throat was marred with bruises and finger-shaped welts. His chest heaved. And that look on his face—blissful, dazed, almost religious—stole the breath from your lungs.

“I can feel how wet you are,” he groaned. “Even now. Knowing I’m filthy. Blood-slicked. Broken. And still, your body knows who it belongs to.”

You clenched around him involuntarily, earning another sharp moan.

“You like me like this,” he said, breath hitching. “Undone. Helpless. That softness in your eyes—it’s not pity. It’s possession.”

You hated how right he was. You hated how much it turned you on—seeing him like this, trembling under you, broken open and smiling like he’d never been more alive.

You began to move.

Slow at first, rocking gently over him, angling your hips to take more—deeper, tighter, fuller. His thighs twitched. His head lolled, gaze flicking down to where you were joined.

“I’d devour you right now,” he murmured, eyes wild. “If my jaw weren’t dislocated.”

“Shut up,” you whispered.

“Make me.”

So you fucked him harder.

You gripped the back of the chaise for leverage and rode him, ignoring the way his body flinched with every bounce, the way blood leaked down from the gauze on his thigh. You reached down to touch your clit, panting harshly now, staring into his ruined face as you chased the edge.

And Hannibal—god, Hannibal looked like he could die happy.

His eyes never left you. His lips parted again and again, whispering filth and devotion, his words slurred with exhaustion but soaked in truth.

“Look at you. Look at you. Using me. Like I’m just a cock for you to ride.”

“That’s all you are,” you whispered shakily, close to breaking.

“Yes. Yes. I want to be that. For you. Always.”

You gasped, desperate now, tightening your grip on his chest as you moved faster. The sound of skin on skin, slick and obscene, filled the room.

“I can feel you,” he groaned. “Every twitch. Every little spasm. You’re going to come, aren’t you? Right on top of me.”

“Hannibal—fuck—!”

“Come for me,” he growled. “While I’m like this. Come on your broken man.”

Your orgasm hit like a wave crashing down, your whole body shaking with it as you cried out, back arching, walls clenching around him in deep, rhythmic pulses. Hannibal let out a shattered moan beneath you and followed you over the edge, hips jerking helplessly as he spilled inside you.

He shook through it, mouth open, eyes wet—not with tears, but with sheer sensation. Euphoria. He looked exquisite.

You collapsed onto his chest, both of you gasping. Sticky. Raw. Covered in sweat and blood and come.

For a long time, the only sound was the thud of your heart and the gentle sound of Hannibal’s breath. Weak but alive.

Finally, he turned his head and kissed your temple.

“Don’t clean me yet,” he whispered, slurring slightly. “Let me stay like this. Marked. Loved.”

You closed your eyes.

And you did.