(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

[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.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric's pleasure spikes, clenching almost painfully tight around Hannibal as he fucks himself hard onto Hannibal's manhood.

His little snail leaks, hard and quivering.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal howls with unrestrained pleasure, for once completely caught up in the wave of his own orgasm as he thrusts, and thrusts, and then powerfully spills inside Sinric.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric's high follows a moment later, sharp and hot, leaving him breathless. He falls forward, his slender throat pressed into Hannibal's hand.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal falls back on the couch, utterly spent and panting heavily.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric curls against Hannibal's chest, just as sated and exhausted. It takes him some time to find his voice but when he does, it's rough. "Forgive me."

[cook_the_rude]

"Forgive?"

Hannibal'S voice isn't much better.

"No. I have to thank you -- this was earth-shatteringly good and wild."

[thewidewideworld]

"I didn't realise his need ran so deep, nor his desires so desperate. Or violent." Sinric starts to lift himself off Hannibal, a soft shudder of pain rippling through him. He's going to ache after their passion.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal strokes Sinric's back while he does that. "It caught hold of me, too."

[thewidewideworld]

"To us both." Sinric groans, resting against Hannibal's chest as he lifts himself from Hannibal's manhood. He's quite sore but there's no blood. He does ache but it was worth it.

[cook_the_rude]

"A hot bath might help," Hannibal suggests.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric nods and presses a soft kiss to Hannibal's cheek. "Will you join me? The bath is somewhat decadent." As if the rest of the room isn't.

[cook_the_rude]

"I am all in favour of decadent baths," Hannibal declares.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric sheds the robe still crumbled around his waist and offers Hannibal a hand up, cum leaking down his thigh unpleasantly.

He touches the violin tenderly as they pass, as if reaching for that lonely young man.

[cook_the_rude]

"We are so thoroughly debauched," Hannibal comments happily.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric, still somewhat sad for the youth he never was, and somewhat sore, casts a tarnished smile to Hannibal, wishing he felt as good about it as Hannibal seems to. "Perhaps we should call for some wine, toast Bacchus for our debauched."