thewidewideworld | (no subject)

Sinric kisses the curve of Hannibal's throat, down the crest of his chest. Slowly, in the rhythm of their dance, Sinric lowers himself to his knees. Finger still working slowly within Hannibal, he coaxes the fluttering muscle to relax.

His hair has returned to it's golden hue, shining as the water beads and glosses it. He kisses the tip of Hannibal's manhood, drinking the water that flows there.

Even kneeling, he doesn't take his eyes from Hannibal, fascinated by the lines and curves of him. The strength and the grace.

Edited 2017-08-01 12:09 (UTC)

Hannibal stands, like a statue in the rain, with just his flesh quivering softly under Sinric's touch.

A sight Sinric can't but admire. He lays Hannibal's manhood on the flat of his tongue, drinking from him as the warm rain covers them both.

He reaches his free hand to Hannibal's, guiding it to his hair as he adds a second finger to his ministrations.

Hannibal sighs Sinric's name has his hand tangles in the wet golden strands.

Feeling that Hannibal is content to let for him to keep the lead, Sinric tilts his head back, accepting Hannibal into his mouth.

He doesn't suck, just enjoying the weight and heft of Hannibal, his tongue caressing the thick vein as his clever long fingers move slowly.

He's in no hurry, building sensation slowly.

Hannibal leans back in the water, legs slightly splayed to allow Sinric access, giving himself over to slow, sweet sensation.

Sinric bobs his head, taking Hannibal deeper. His fingers moving inside Hannibal form the chords as his hollowed cheeks play the melody. Creating a melody of Hannibal's passion.

And indeed, Hannibal can no longer contain giving voice to his passion; he moans and gasps softly as Sinric keeps drawing more and more passion from him.

Sinric watches him, never taking his eyes off Hannibal's face, drinking in his passion. He wants to see it, the moment that Hannibal's passion crests and breaks.

It is going to take a while, as Hannibal isn't going to do anything to speed it on, savouring the process rather than striving towards the end result.

Sinric is nothing if not patience. And skilled. And his shower isn't going to run out of hot water in a hurry. He builds the intensity slowly, over the better part of an hour before his fingertips begin to graze Hannibal's seat of pleasure, his throat closing tightly around the length of him.

Hannibal's knees begin to tremble, his muscles shaking and his soft moans turning to rough groans. After that long, lovely plateau, his climax is building.

Sinric tilts his head back, taking Hannibal deeper into his throat as he encourages Hannibal's crescendo.

"Soon!" Hannibal warns, and then he spills copious amounts into Sinric's mouth, his hole spasming helplessly around Sinric's fingers.

Sinric drinks him down, gently massaging Hannibal's stones to milk every last drop of him.

He waits till Hannibal begins to soften before drawing back, kissing his tip before breaking contact. He smiles up, admiring the magnificence he's wrought.

Hannibal slowly slides down the tiled walls as his knees, indeed all his joints and muscles, go soft.

He holds Sinric's gaze the entire time.

Sinric steadies him, in so much as he can. His legs have gone to sleep, his knees marked by the tiles. he'll need help standing but that can wait. For now, he wants to hold Hannibal and share in the warmth of his fall.

Hannibal pulls him close and settles him half between his splayed legs, half over them.

Sinric leans into him, balancing their bodies against each other. Trusting Hannibal as Hannibal trusted him.

Lazily, Hannibal slides a hand between Sinric's legs, as if to check the situation there.

Sinric shakes his head, pressing a kiss to Hannibal's cheek. His lips are hot and swollen. "In the morning. Come to bed with me now. Further pleasures can wait."

"In the morning," Hannibal agrees. "Then your little snail will raise its head, be tickled, and then spill."

He loves that little thing that lives between Sinric's legs, for its uniqueness and for the way he can arouse it despite everything.

"In the morning. When it and I have the vitality to enjoy it." Sinric chuckles, leaning rather exhaustedly on Hannibal's shoulder.

He reaches up to turn off the water, wincing at his aching knees. "You have the stamina of an ox." It's by no means a complaint.

Hannibal groans, and stands.

It doesn't feel like it just now."

"Few men I've ever known could last so long." They steady each other as they dry off. Sinric's towels are thick and fluffy and decadent. Matching the rest of his rooms.

Sinric takes Hannibal's hand and leads him towards the bed, falling gladly into the embrace of the silk covers and thick down pillows.