✉️ ⦂ first time writing for hannibal! I’m only on season 2 so hopefully nothing is too ooc [ wc ╱ 1.2k ]
The bedroom breathed low light—candle-flame stuttering on the dresser, moonlight carving thin slits past half-drawn drapes. You lay supine across the wide bed, naked skin drinking the icy bite of Egyptian cotton, arms stretched languidly above your head.
Hannibal stood at the bedside, crisp white dress shirt already stripped of its vest and tie, his sleeves turned to the elbow to reveal lean, corded forearms. His gaze drifted over your exposed skin, lingering on the curves of your hips and the soft seam of your thighs—a perfect little lamb arranged for sacrifice, one that was far too sweet for a man of his appetites.
Which, of course, was exactly why he wanted you.
He lifted a perfect ice sphere from the silver bowl, hand-blown glass catching firelight in fractured prisms. He held it suspended between thumb and forefinger, letting you watch the slow condensation bead and slide.
The sphere descended. Frost met your collarbone in an unforgiving kiss.
The cold seared instantly, bright and piercing, melting into a thin, glistening rivulet that arrowed between your breasts. You bit the inside of your lip to smother a whimper at the sting, skin prickling alive under his unwavering stare.
“You shiver already,” Hannibal observed, voice low and mildly amused. “Like a rare orchid forced into flower by the threat of winter. No exception to instinct, are you?”
He trailed the ice down to your chest, your nipples hardening instantly, shamelessly eager as he began to draw lazy figure-eights onto them. “Mmf… oh god…” Your breath hitched, back arching off the mattress in involuntary offering.
“Shhh,” he whispered, almost teasing. “Blasphemy is a poor substitute for breath.”
He continued—agonizingly patient—ringing each tight peak until they ached, flushing dark against gooseflesh. Meltwater pooled in the hollow of your waist, then spilled sideways across ribs, licking cold paths your body begged him to follow with heat.
When the sphere dwindled to a fragile shard he pressed it to your lower lip. “Open.”
You parted for him, mouth yielding like prey baring throat as he slid the remnant inside.
His eyes crinkled ever so slightly, pleased. “Good lamb,” he murmured. “Obedience suits you.”
“Now, suck.”
Your tongue curled greedily around it. Mineral-sharp sweetness dissolved against the roof of your mouth while you glanced up at him through damp lashes—wide-eyed and doe-soft, the very picture of innocence even as your pulse hammered at the base of your throat.
Hannibal tilted his head, ink-pooled eyes tracking every flicker of muscle, every swallow, practically cataloguing the mechanics of your hunger. He remained utterly composed—posture impeccable, breath measured—yet the fine wool of his slacks betrayed him: the thick, insistent outline of his cock strained against the fabric, a small dark bloom of pre-cum already darkening the tip.
He was starving. Not for food. For that frantic little pulse beneath the wool.
Another sphere. This one he dragged in one unhurried line down your midline—past navel, over the soft rise of your mound, then lower. His free hand nudged your legs apart until you spread completely exposed for him, your cunt slick and hot with no dignity left to hide behind.
The ice met your clit with a mean push. Shock lanced through you as soon as contact was made there, hips snapping upward before you could cage the reflex.
“Agh—- Hanni- too cold!…” Eyes squeezed shut, a wince.
His palm flattened over your lower belly, thumb stroking just above the cold press where muscle knotted tight from need, anchoring you like territory thoroughly claimed.
“Breathe,” he said, kinder now, yet edged with command. “Let the chill carve itself into you… right here.”
He punctuated his words with a press, circling your hypersensitive bundle torturously, admiring how your cunt pulsed and wept in spasmodic answer. Arousal mingled with meltwater in obscene, shining trails down your folds, soaking the sheet beneath as you squirmed.
The sight earned a hum out of him—deep and delighted. “Such eager little contractions. Your body blooms beautifully under duress.”
He nudged the next chilled sphere shallowly inside you—just the tip—then withdrew, leaving your sex fluttering around emptiness, walls clenching at the ghost of intrusion.
Your knees quaked nonstop, mewls splintering into fevered gasps as lungs mutinied. “W-Wait,” you swallowed, throat working around the word. “Please…”
Hannibal paused, the ice hovering a cruel millimeter from your swollen labia, his dark eyes flickering up to meet your teary ones.
“Yes?”
“It’s… intense. I-It’s too much.”
A small, genuine smile touched his lips, making your stomach twist with equal parts fear and want. “That’s precisely the point, my love.”
Gently, he set the bowl aside, kneeling between your thighs, lowering his mouth.
Warmth after frost was devastating. His tongue swept along the full length of your slit, gathering the mingled chill and juices in a series of greedy swipes that made your toes curl.
His lids fluttered closed for a heartbeat, savoring. “You taste even sweeter thawed.” he noted, features flickering with amusement. “How delightfully predictable.”
His thumbs pressed your folds wider, holding you open while he feasted in a way both unabashed yet deliberate—flat, broad laps over your clit that built into tight, lethal flicks, then sealing the puffy bud between his lips. A delicate, testing pull at first… then harder, a deep suction that locked your fists bone-white into the sheets.
A shattered cry ripped out. “Hannibal!—-”
You bucked against his face, the sculpted ridge of his nose rubbing ruthlessly into your nerves as his jaw worked, hips chasing the delicious pressure on instinct.
“Mmm… my greedy little pet,” he purred against you, vibration curling fresh lightning through your core. Fingers laced with yours, grounding you while his tongue plunged in further, skilled strokes gliding along each hidden ridge—relishing how his little lamb thrashed for the wolf’s mouth alone.
Your moans rang off the high ceiling as you finally came apart on his mouth. Your thighs clamped around his shoulders, flooding him in tremor after tremor. He drank you through it all until you collapsed in a sheen of sweat, glittering and spent.
Hannibal rose smoothly, lips gleaming in the candlelight, his breath measured except for one shallow pull he made no effort to disguise. Even he allowed himself a moment’s indulgence.
He moved over to brush a strand of hair clinging to your brow, studying the shivers still passing through you and the disarray he had authored.
“Beauty in extremis,” he said quietly, words heavy with near-reverence. “You fracture so exquisitely under pressure. It is a rare privilege to compose such ruin.”
Still trembling, you managed a breathless laugh. “That mouth of yours is going to kill me one day.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, satisfied rather than apologetic, thumb smoothing along your temple as if calming a startled animal. “Rest assured, I have plans that require your continued… vitality.”
He then kissed you slowly, feeding you the taste of your own ruin straight from his tongue, a move so brazenly possessive it felt like etiquette in reverse.
He withdrew just enough to look at you. “Shall we proceed? The ice remains, and the night is still young with untasted potential.”
You reached for him, aching readily for the next cut despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”
His fingertips ghosted the glossy evidence the ice had left across your thigh, cruel in its restraint. “Impossible?” A soft huff of laughter escaped him. “No. Merely inevitable. You invited the wolf in… now, you must feed him.”
He leaned in, the grip on your flesh suddenly tightening. “And I find myself quite famished for the sound you’ll make when you break again.”
