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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.

Hannibal follows suit, loosely and comfortably gathering Sinric in his arm.

"All that," he declares, "was entirely your doing."

Sinric chuckles and tucks his head against Hannibal's chest, falling into a doze almost at once and sleeping soundly till dawn.

But as is his way, he wakes just before dawn, slipping as silently for the bed as he can to make his way to the large east-facing window. He opens to curtains a slit, enough to let the growing light fall across him as he lounges on the padded bench set there for exactly that purpose.

Under the warm dawn light, his bared body seems to glow gold, his expression rich with pleasure as the sun seems to caress his skin.

Hannibal opens his eyes after a while and doesn't move, just looks at the beautiful apparition in the sunlight.

"Lovely golden one," he breathes.

Sinric turns his head to smile to Hannibal. As he breathes in, he shifts his form, becoming the potent young man Hannibal met during a Cubefall.

Hard muscles ripple under the sunlight, running his hands over the firm stomach.

Hannibal sits up, amazed.

"Is it a glamour, or can you shift shape?"

He comes back to himself before shifting into the form of a woman - narrow hips, full breasts, all curves and softness.

"Here, in this place, I can reach for these forms at will. What I have been, I can be at a whim." She stretches out, running a hand over a soft thigh. "The magic here is wild and strong. And so am I."

Hannibal eyes him. "Then pick the one shape for whom pleasure felt best," he says.

"With you?" He begins to rise, returning to his usual form. "This. Always."

Hannibal smiles, and sits up.

Sinric stays where he is, watching Hannibal like a cat. His skin glows, brighter than the dawn light justifies.

Hannibal comes closer, not taking his eyes off Sinric. They glow a deep, fierce red.

"You look as if you would devour me." Sinric purrs, licking his lips.

"I am only hungry for your pleasure," Hannibal says, his eyes roaming Sinric's body.

"It's yours to give." He sprawls artfully, "And take."

Hannibal kneels down and runs his hands over Sinric's flat stomach.

Soft muscles flutter under Hannibal's touch - a dancer's tone rather than the young man form's hard musculature. He breathes a welcoming sigh, eyes fluttering.

Hannibal's hands slide up towards Sinric's breasts, slowly, as if savouring the touch of the smooth golden skin.

Little flames of gold light lick Sinric's skin, following the lines of Hannibal's caresses. This not the tired mortal that arrived yesterday. Here and now, Sinric is alive with light and sensation. His otherness bright as the dawn.

His nipples harden, his heart fluttering under Hannibal's hands.

"You are so very breathtaking," Hannibal sighs softly; and then his fingers finally touch those nipples.

They both don't have to hold back with each other.

Not at all. There is nothing they need to keep back. There is something liberating in that. Neither of them need fear judgement of any part of themselves.

Sinric undulates under that touch, the golden flames lapping onto Hannibal's skin like the caress of sunlight. A feedback loop of sensation.

Hannibal bends his head to kiss the middle of Sinric's stomach.

Sinric runs a hand over Hannibal's hair, those golden flames licking the nape of Hannibal's neck, the whorls of his ears. "You ignite me, Hannibal." He whispers, warm and husky.

Hannibal kisses his way upwards, towards Sinric's sensitive breasts.