(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]

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.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal closes his eyes and spills deeply into Sinric's body -- not just seed, but energy, devotion, fire and truth.

[thewidewideworld]

Whatever or whoever is in Sinric in that moment drinks it in, sucking it from Hannibal's kiss just as much as it is milked from his manhood.

The moment of peak seems to draw out and out and out, almost past the point of endurance. And then breaks like a craving wave.

Sinric falls back, narrowly missing striking his head. His eyes are rolled back, his skin alive with lines of flickering gold, like a lightening storm under his skin. He twitches, as if caught by a seizure and then goes still, breathing normally again.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal bends over him and reverently kisses the tips of his breasts.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric's eye flutter open, sighing a breathless moan. He reaches up to stroke Hannibal's hair, kitten weak and wrung out.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal is panting, wordless, out of himself for the moment; he turns his head to look at Sinric, eyes dazed and awed.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric's eyes are no less dazed. And perhaps a little bit scared. He manages to pull himself up enough to wrap his arms around Hannibal, needing human contact.

There's gold in his eyes, under his skin, in his breath. Almost too much power, built up like a static charge.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal holds him tight and kisses what skin he can reach.

[thewidewideworld]

It takes quite a while of petting and kisses before Sinric feels calm enough to speak, the jittering gold lines starting to fade. "Did I... they... he... hurt you?"

[cook_the_rude]

"No," Hannibal says; he finds he can't form a whole sentence just yet, and prefers to run his fingertips over the fading magic.

[thewidewideworld]

"Good." Sinric whispers, arching into the touch. Here and there, little sparks ignite under Hannibal's fingers and Sinric has to grip the now blood warm stone for support.