(no subject)

[thewidewideworld]

[from here}

Sinric comes down from his room, still dressed his furs and heavily embroiled tunic but looking fresh and scrubbed.

He smiles brightly to see Hannibal.

Comments

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric cries out, clenching tight around Hannibal's fingers. He clenches a hand in Hannibal's hair, trying to rein his magic in. He wants to let it fly free but the risk of having anyone walk in on them is too high. Which gives their pleasure an edge of danger.

[cook_the_rude]

Rather than speeding up, Hannibal slows down, wanting to hear Sinric keen and moan and beg.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric's moans turn into a laugh, throaty and warm and joyful. "Testing me, lovely Hannibal?"

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal hums around Sinric, and slips in another finger.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric's laugh is as warm and bright as his moan, clenching and flexing around Hannibal's fingers. "So near." He whispers hoarsely. "The thought of you taking me, here, in this place." He whines softly, on edge and leaking. "The devilment of it."

[cook_the_rude]

"I will," Hannibal promises, Sinric still on his tongue.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric pulls him in, lifting his hips against Hannibal's mouth, on the brink of falling on those words.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal suckles deeply.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric throws his head back and sings, letting the song fill up the room as he spills over onto Hannibal's lips. He does his best to keep his magic in check but there's a moment, like an after-image of lighting, where his arched back is framed by golden wings.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal laps it all up, suckling even stronger with every delightful drop hitting his tongue, and reaches up as if to touch the wings.

[thewidewideworld]

The second touch, the caress of fingers over golden wings, makes Sinric shudder and cry out, pulsing again.

He falls back, elbows braced on the stone altar as he breathes hard, stroking Hannibal's hair.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal kisses the bottom of Sinric's belly, the gentle mount that in most is covered in rough curls, but mostly smooth and golden on Sinric's body.

[thewidewideworld]

"Take me, Hannibal." Sinric breathes, hoarse and hot. "Let God and all his angels see our passion."

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal stands, liberates his prick, and pushes right in.

[thewidewideworld]

Layers of sensation build, overstimulated nerves straining as Sinric arches up to take Hannibal in. Both hands grip the stone of the altar.

[cook_the_rude]

"This is for the old powers that linger," Hannibal says, gripping Sinric's hips and pushing all the way in.

[thewidewideworld]

"Apollo hear us." Sinric moans, speaking in ancient Greek as he clenches tight around Hannibal. "Give light to your places once more."

[cook_the_rude]

"Your art," Hannibal adds, thrusting, "your love, your wide open mind."

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric starts to chant, to sing. Old words. A song older than Christ. A song drawn straight from the stones and the god whose worship this place was dedicated too. A song sent by the rhythm of their thrusts and the race of his heart.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal closes his eyes, and breathes deeply, and thrusts.

The scent of immortality that he knows from Ganymede's taste.

[thewidewideworld]

In that moment the man Hannibal is thrusting into is both Sinric and not Sinric. A mortal man and the vessel of the gods. A winged angel and Byzantine eunuch. And all very much in the throes of pleasure.

[cook_the_rude]

The candles flicker wildly, and the scent of immortality wafts away the incense as Hannibal keeps immersing himself into that immense power.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric's voice takes on a strange resonance, as if several voices are singing at once, some of them deeper than Sinric's voice will ever be.

A strong hand grips Hannibal's neck and pulls him into a deep kiss. A kiss that demands worship.

[cook_the_rude]

In this moment, Hannibal utterly belongs to him -- whoever this 'he' is that is claiming him, that he is worshipping. He speeds up his thrusts, wild with want.

[thewidewideworld]

The hand moves to Hannibal's throat, squeezing. Not to tight that it take away his air but tight enough to show it can. To heighten all of Hannibal's senses to the fragility of life.

GIVE.

The order comes without sound, direct the the hindbrain.

MINE.