(no subject)

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric's new room is up a floor from his old one and at the east end of the corridor. Inside they arefrankly ridiculous. Romanesque with vaulted ceilings with edges with frescos of animals, rich tiled floors that are warm underfoot.

The cross shaped layout and columns create discreet niches - one with a large bed; another lined with books and a map of the world as known in his time painted on the wall, a third holding several large couches circling his harpsichord.

The east side opens onto a glassed-in portico with a stunning view of the snow speckled garden.

A door off the bed chamber leads to a more modern but still Romanesque bathroom with a bath easily large enough for three.

Comments

[cook_the_rude]

"Whatever you have to share," Hannibal says, "I will taste and take. Anything."

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric purrs a pleased little sound. "You put yourself in my hands? Be careful, Hannibal. I may rather too much enjoy the power."

He kisses Hannibal again before pushing him gently toward one of the deep, comfortable couches that surround the harpsichord, forming an intimate little performance space.

"Undress for me." He turns them around, sprawling on a lounge so he can watch. "I want to be able to see what effect I'm having on you."

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal sits smoothly on that couch and discards his tie, a pale one with red splashes in intricate patterns of flowers and paisley, as on some of the textiles Sinric might have seen in India.

He hangs it over the back of the couch, opens the collar of his shirt, swallowing as he does so.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric sprawls, very feline in his posture. Right down to licking his lips as he watches.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal sheds his plaid jacket, placing it over the back of the sofa as well, and then starts unbuttoning his shirt, baring his chest.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric purrs his pleasure at the view, leaning in to stroke a caress down the centre of Hannibal's chest. "These too." He rests his palm on the waistband of Hannibal's pant.

[cook_the_rude]

Slowly, Hannibal opens them.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric resists the urge to stroke Hannibal. But only just.

"Will you permit me to bind you, Hannibal?" Sinric asks with a breathless purr. "Your eyes and your hands. Do you trust me in that?"

[cook_the_rude]

"Without hesitation," Hannibal says.

He sheds his trousers, shows, socks, underwear, and sprawls naked, holding out his wrists to be bound.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric fetches two lengths of fine silk. He sits, still clothed straddling Hannibal's thighs to bind his hands. The knots are comfortably loose, more symbolic than binding. Hannibal could slip them in a moment of he felt he needed to.

Sinric leans in to kiss Hannibal deeply before covering his eyes. "Allow the music to wash over you, to take you. I promise you pleasure."

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal nods and leans back, knees slightly apart.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric goes to the cupboard and fetches out a violin. It's not as grand as Sherlock's Strad. A little battered, a little flimsy but playable. And it's own way, lovely for being less that perfect.

He lifts it to his chin and starts to play. Not as himself, but as another self.

The the first notes open slowly. A beautiful young man stands alone on the stage of an empty recital hall. A single light embraces him, holding him apart from the echoing silence.

He plays a piece of his own composition. Voiced by the mournful notes of that single violin. The music carries his thoughts and feelings, each note and chord a nerve - exposed and vulnerable.

The music speaks of loneliness, or self imposed solitude. The weight of guilt and shame, the fear of a past so near to his shoulder that he dare not look back. This is the song of a young man pining for a new start, for light and freedom, even as the black tendrils of his past menace his shadow.

and like the violin, it's all the more lovely for being battered.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal can see the vision clearly, and feels it should feel familiar, even though it isn't. He knows the place it evokes, in Florence, though.

[thewidewideworld]

The scene changes with the music. A piazza, bathed in sunlight and as thick with tourists as it is pigeon. A group of young people busking against a fountain, laughing at each other as they play.

The music is upbeat; fast and tripping klezmer that has the players dancing as much as the crowd. The young man's worries drop away and for a moment he allows himself to feel happy. To let joy past the shadows. His laugh is as bright and lyrical as the tune, as warm as the Florentine sun.

The young man looks up to see a familiar face - a man in black leather, leaning on a motorcycle as he watches. The blood warm eyes make the young man's heart skip a beat, cycling through a dozen emotions in that brief moment their eye meet.

Confusion, concern, thrill. Desire and fear. Hope and sadness.

And lust. That also.

He can't help but imagine the man in his bed - touching him, holding him.

Too swiftly the scene in his head shifts to violence and force. Visions of the man holding him down, using him without care or kindness.

More frightening still is that the thought arouses him.

The vision swims and the young man misses a note and his fellow places turn on him with concern and protective natures.

When he looked again; the man, the bike and the vision are gone. His friends crowd around him, helping him to sit, offering him water and fanning him to cool him down. But still he feels the fever under his skin.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal gives a brief sound, almost of regret, and of worry. Would he do that, in that alternative branch of reality?

His kind of violence isn't sexual. Never that. He might be vaguely aware that his predecessor wasn't above that, but he is.

[thewidewideworld]

In the gloom of evening, the beautiful young man retreats to his apartment. On the poorer side of town, crumbling and cosy. Like so much about this young man’s life there’s beauty in the noble decay of Florence.

He stands before a long mirror, it’s faded gilt frame reflecting the light of a dozen candles. He undresses slowly. He loosens his hair from the tight braid, slowly opening his conservative vest and button down shirt. Almost as if he’s undressing for another. As if he’s… letting someone see him for the first time.

The shirt falls away slowly to reveal a tightly fitted binder. He takes it off slowly, hesitantly, as if unsure he’s ready to let that someone see.

But he takes it off, revealing soft high breasts. Bigger than Sinric’s, fuller and more feminine. Half-dressed before the mirror, Sin seems more certainly a woman.

He touches himself slowly, cupping the curves of those full breasts, teasing himself slowly. He imagines the man in the leather jacket with the blood warm eyes standing behind him, watching him, desiring him.

He pinches his own nipples, eyes half closed as he lets himself fantasise about the man’s hands. Harder, tighter, until the touch just crosses the line between pleasure and pain.

[cook_the_rude]

Imagining the image of an image, in the mirror...

Should not be as sensual as this is to Hannibal. Visibly so.

[thewidewideworld]

But more than just the visual. As Sinric plays it, singing over the softly keening violin, Hannibal should feel it - the weight and warmth of the young man's breasts, the thrilling shock of pleasure pain as he touches himself. The longing for another's hands.

The young man goes on, pinching and touching till his nipples ache, hot under his hands. He moves down to his belt, opening and letting his pants fall from his narrow hips, pushing his briefs down after them.

Again, larger than Sinric's, his manhood is still small, his balls lost to a scar more ragged and prominent. He's already hard, conjuring the blood-eyed man behind him.

A broad chest pressed against his back, strong hands cupping him, fondling him. Those generous lips on his slender throat.

Lips that are replaced by the man's large hand.

Sin's lust sparks, his desire quickening with his heart as he imagines the man wrapping a hand around his throat. Not squeezing, not pressing - just hot and heavy and large, pushing Sin's head back a little. Making him aware of his own frantic breathing.

He shouldn't want this. He isn't sure this is what Dr Fell would want or need or do. He feels shame at wanting this but the fantasy of the subtle threat is heady and he keens with need.

[cook_the_rude]

It is enough to make Hannibal moan loudly, sharing the sensation, keen and sharp and insistent.

[thewidewideworld]

Sin aches to be held like this. To be touch, to be taken. To be filled. It feels like an eternity since he was last stretched by anything but his own fingers. Hot tears of shame and frustration blur down his cheeks as he strokes himself, desperately seeking a high his traitorous body won't give him.

Nothing he does feels like enough and he skates the edge of hurting himself just to feel something. His hand tightening around his own throat in a desperate attempt to make the fantasy real. Or even just real enough. Anything. Anything to prove he can still feel.

Sinric's playing becomes frantic and rough as Sin falls to his knees on the hard floorboards, notes skewed and wild.

The crescendo-less song stops as abruptly as Sin's fall, Sinric panting and shaking, his fingers bleeding from the frantic skate of the strings.

He sets the violin down with all the calm he came muster and rushes to Hannibal, ripping off the blindfold and kissing him hard. He feels as if he's never needed to be fucked so badly in his life.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal tears out of the bonds, leaving burns on his wrists, in his hurry to grip Sinric's hips and pull him towards himself, feeling the same urgent need.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric straddles Hannibal, pushing himself down. Tight and raw and it hurts but he doesn't care. They both need this too badly to care.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal holds him steady and thrusts up just as Sinric pushes down. He has no control now, no finesse -- just raw need.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric's cries, echo off the roof in a wonderful harmony of primal desire. He thrusts, thigh muscles working as he forces himself down and down again onto Hannibal's cock, feeling himself stretch and burn.

He grabs one of Hannibal's wrists and pulls his hand up to Sinric's throat, desperate to feel what Sin only dreamt of.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal holds him by the throat as he thrusts -- just holding, no pressure, just as the vision in the vision suggested.