(no subject)

[thewidewideworld]

[From here]

Sinric leads Hannibal to his room, to his bed. He kisses Hannibal deeply and gently pushes him onto the bed. He undresses. Slowly.

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[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal growls, withdraws, and then pushes in very deep once more.

[thewidewideworld]

This time it comes out as a scream, feral and joyous. It hurts, in just the way he wants it to.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal gives a few short, shallow thrusts, aiming for the most sensitive spot inside Sinric.

"I want you to come, from no more than this," he growls, "come soon, come hard, let it take over all of you."

[thewidewideworld]

He howls as every thrust hits him just there, slamming a jolt of shocking pleasure into the very core of him. "Yes!" He hiss, as much a demand and a consent. "Yes!"

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal grips Sinric's hips, hard, and keeps slamming into him, aiming well and striking true -- most of the time, as he is getting almost erratic with greed himself.

There is something of a fiery energy, a thunderous aura, to their rough coupling.

[thewidewideworld]

That fieriness seems to play over Sinric's skin like St Elmo's fire in gold, brightening in flashes with each thrust. Or so it seems. It could be a trick of the light. Or not.

Sinric rears back, forcing Hannibal deeper as he pushes into the thrust. "Pull my hair." He growls, his little member throbbing sharply. He can't last long now.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal grabs him by the hair and slams into him, letting go utterly as he thrusts and thrusts, as if to stoke the fires into roaring like a devouring monster that eats the world.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric yowls and spits, trashing as each thrust drives him to the crest. He's so close, so achingly close. Words babble off his tongue, half cursing, half begging. Some of them rich with magic judging by the way they echo off the walls in unearthly song.

Sinric could well be that fire. Or that monster. His pleasure and his gifts making him seem preternatural, his flesh bathed in gold.

And then it come, the crescendo. So sudden and powerful he has no air to cry out. The sudden stark silence of it louder than his moans had been. The whole room is alight now, as if Sinric has become the rising sun.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal follows immediately, spilling hotly into that unquenchable fire.

[thewidewideworld]

Somewhat in the breathless moments between ecstasy and exhaustion, the brightness dissipates. Leaving Sinric drained and panting and utterly spent. His sweat slick body falls limply to the furs, his eye heavy. He hasn't the strength to pull Hannibal with him, as much as he wants to.

[cook_the_rude]

But Hannibal follows anyway as gravity claims him, collapsing onto Sinric with a groan, then picking himself off to roll them over and gather Sinric's slight form into his arms.

And then he just stills, sticky and panting and utterly satisfied.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric whispers softly, oversensitive and sore but he burrows into Hannibal's arms gladly. It takes a very long time before he comes down enough to lift his head and kiss Hannibal's cheek softly. "Thank you."

[cook_the_rude]

The only answer the usually so verbose Hannibal can muster up is a kind of fond grunt.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric smiles and closes his eyes, fingers tracing soft patterns over Hannibal's shoulder as he lets the lethargy of the little death wash over him. It's clear he still have something on his mind but at least the storm within had abated.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal is, apparently, perfectly willing to bask in the shared lassitude until Sinric is ready to wake up and talk.

[thewidewideworld]

He dozes on and off, fingers brushing Hannibal's skin in his wakeful moments. After a while he leans up and kisses Hannibal softly. "Will you tell me what it's like to kill?" He asks, almost as if it's a natural continuation of a conversation.

[cook_the_rude]

"Yes, gladly," Hannibal says. "What part of it?"

[thewidewideworld]

"What it is you feel. What power you draw from it." He toys with Hannibal's long fingers, twining them in his own.

[cook_the_rude]

"I feel like a panther, taking what he wants while those around him think he's just a dark housecat," Hannibal muses. "I create out of destruction, I nourish and feed those around me with my creation and bind them to me."

[thewidewideworld]

"Nourishing them from your creations binds them to you? Even if they are unaware of it?" He asks, rolling into his back to look up at Hannibal.

[cook_the_rude]

"It does," Hannibal says. "Even if it is vegetarian, at that."

[thewidewideworld]

"By sharing your creations with them, you draw them to you. As a provider?"

[cook_the_rude]

"As a provider, as someone who points them on their way," Hannibal says, "as I prefer it. It helps me shape the world as I would like it to be."

[thewidewideworld]

"As someone they trust and respect." Sinric muses, still tracing lazy patterns over Hannibal's skin. "That is the power you draw from your table, from your cooking. But you said yourself, such power comes from those who don't eat the meat of your kills?"

[cook_the_rude]

"It is much stronger when they do," Hannibal says.