thewidewideworld | (no subject)

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.

Sinric moans warmly, his nipples tight and hard in anticipation. He whispers soft words of encouragement, of desire.

Hannibal reaches the left nipple, and gently suckles.

Sinric arches up, pressing himself against Hannibal's generous lips. He tightens his hand in Hannibal's hair, panting warmly.

Sprawled out and offered up as he may be, he's no passive sacrifice. Taking as much as he gives.

As he suckles, Hannibal's hand strays downwards, over Sinric's stomach towards his groin.

Sinric's little snail unfurls slowly, his skin blood hot and smooth. He spreads his legs, inviting the touch, bare thigh brushing against Hannibal's hip.

While kissing and suckling and licking Sinric's breasts, Hannibal strokes the inside of his thighs, then finally touches the tip of that little pricklet.