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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.

The shimmer of flames that surround Sinric leaps at the touch, like a splash of fuel on a fire.

He arches his neck, rubbing against Hannibal. He tighten his grip on Hannibal's hair, needy and demanding.

Hannibal lavishes attention on the nipple under his lips while his finger slides along the little snail, all the way down, the back to the tip.

The flames rock over his skin, as if brushed by waves, following the stroke of Hannibal's finger over that small but potent length. A length that thickens and fills to his touch, drawn out by Hannibal's attentions.

Hannibal lifts his head, looks into Sinric's eyes, then dips his head again to kiss the little snail's tip.

His irises are antique gold. The colour of halos on Russian icons, or the tiles in Byzantine mosaics. And smiling.

His little snail jumps in anticipation, drawing a rich moan from Sinric.

Hannibal closes his skilful lips around it, and suckles.

Sinric's moan elevates in pitch, his lean body tightly drawn, nerves focused on the feeling. "Hannibal, yes! Oh yes."

Hannibal licks down all the way, tongue-tip nudging Sinric's hole.

He spreads his legs wider, opening himself utterly. It's been so weeks for him and he's tight but eager. "I would have you inside me." He pants, "after you've brought me to my fall. I would beg you to devour me."

Hannibal voices his assent with his lips around Sinric; he sucks deep enough to probe the little hole with his curled-up tongue at the same time.

There's so little of Sinric and yet it's always so wonderfully overwhelming what Hannibal can do with those generous lips of his. He opens slowly, his little snail ridged and needy to the attention.

Hannibal massages the entire short length with his tongue while keeping the tip firmly between his skilful lips.

Sinric cups the back of Hannibal's head, his hips moving in tiny aborted thrusts and the fire within and without flickers brightly.

Hannibal let's the prick-tip slip from his lips and applies his mouth completely to massaging the root of it, tongue darting at the hole.

Sinric whimpers with loss, his hot skin seeming all the cooler without Hannibal's lips. But the heat soon builds again as Hannibal works his mouth at the base of Sinric's scar. "Soon! Oh, Hannibal."

Hannibal works his lips on that spot and slides a hand up to Sinric's breasts again.

His gasps become higher, sweeter, his flames brighter. He feels the peek coming, arching sharply.

At the moment of orgasm, his skin turns bright gold, his cry of joy echoing off the walls and ceiling.

At that moment, Hannibal takes the tip between his lips, suckling every last little drop, savouring it like a rare nectar of the gods.

Sinric falls back onto the couch, sprawled and sated. He reaches a lazy hand down to stoke Hannibal's hair, drawing him up into a kiss.

He's fading back into a soft glow, his skin flushed and warm.

Hannibal holds him in his arms and kisses him gently while the glow fades.

Sinric smiles warmly, relishing the warmth of his afterglow. He strokes Hannibal's hair, eyes still warmly gold. "You make me shine." He whispers with deep appreciation.

"I feel honoured to," Hannibal says.