(no subject)

[thewidewideworld]

{From here}

Sinric's room is small and nothing special, a place to sleep when he's alone and little more.

A bed, only just big enough for two. A window looking out on the kitchen garden with a padded window seat wide enough for Sinric's narrow frame. A decently sized wardrobe with a long mirror on one side. A tiny, modern bathroom, no more than a sink and a toilet.

But there are little touches of Sinric's personality too. A pile of books on the window seat, a grey silk kimono painted with misty mountain hanging in fill display on one wall, a box of trinkets and an ornate oil lamp on the little side table.

And now, a harpsichord! Set by the window to get the best light. Sinric regards it with awe, running his hands over the polished surface.

Comments

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric giggles softly and leans in to seek a particularly sensitive patch on Hannibal's side, brushing soft lips over the skin. He trails kisses to other places; the rim of Hannibal's navel, the hollow of his throat, the outer edge of his nipple, finding the minor chords first.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal hums, moans, chuckles, sighs and, once, yelps, freely to these ministrations.

[thewidewideworld]

The analogy is too sweet not to enjoy, his fingers playing over Hannibal's skin to Bach's rhythms. He steps up his explorations, taking the peak of one nipple between soft lips and teasing it as he reaches down to loosen Hannibal's pants.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal gives a long moan, counterpoint to some of the fast trills the music is executing right now, almost a basso continuo.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric is quite fond of such low notes, even if trying to reproduce them is what cost him his voice. He moves to the other nipple, nipping lightly to see what sound that will elicit.

[cook_the_rude]

The sound is lighter, more like a drawn-out gasp ending in a light hiss.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric hums happily, approving of the sound. He kisses down to nibble at the rim of Hannibal's navel again as he helps him out of his pants, seeking more skin to explore.

[cook_the_rude]

With a soft moan, Hannibal spreads himself open, giving him all the skin he wants.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric eases Hannibal's pant and underwear away. He kisses and touches his way up and down Hannibal's legs, particularly infatuated by the turn of Hannibal's ankles.

[cook_the_rude]

They are lean, narrow ankles; and as they are touched, Hannibal gives a low hum of appreciation, followed by a tiny hiss when Sinric's touch grazes the soles of his feet.

[thewidewideworld]

Ah, that's good to know. Sinric runs soft fingers over curve of Hannibal's instep, a little teasingly. Is Hannibal ticklish?

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal takes a deep breath and gives a chuckle, as if at Sinric's curiosity -- it seems he has trained himself to resist that reflex.

But yes, he might be.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric smiles and kisses Hannibal's instep before he gently but firmly run his thumbs over the curve of Hannibal's sole, massaging more than caressing.

[cook_the_rude]

That unexpected little kiss gets him another brief indrawn breath; but the massage brings a hum of pleasure, and a flexing of toes.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric goes back to kissing the turn of Hannibal's ankle as he massages from the ball of Hannibal's feet down to his heels. He's more than happy to shift his pace from erotic to therapeutic and back again, shifting like the changes in a concerto.

[cook_the_rude]

Why shouldn't the therapeutic be erotic, or segue seamlessly I to it? That is, after all, how things started between them.

Hannibal stretches his legs under Sinric's ministrations, quite content to let him do as he pleases. His muscles relax with the music.

[thewidewideworld]

Just so. Sinric adjusts his position to give Hannibal room to stretch, kissing his instep again as he swaps feet to ease out the pressure from where Hannibal stands so often.

[cook_the_rude]

And Hannibal does have a habit of standing, Sinric may have noticed that.

But feet are not just feet -- as the touches happen, Hannibal stretches this limb or that, opens his knees, moans softly, or hums in pleasure.

His cock, half-tumescent where it lies, moves as if by itself, stirred by the music and those dedicated ministrations. It hardens a little more with each touch of the toes, each stroke of the instep.

[thewidewideworld]

That he has noticed and will follow the line of muscles up Hannibal's Achilles tendon when he gets to that.

But the sensitivity of Hannibal's feet interest him for now. Curiously, he kisses the tip of one toe as he massages, waiting to see if it's a particular pleasure for Hannibal.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal stretches his arms and sighs, sounding pleased.

[thewidewideworld]

A pleasure then, rather than a particular fetish. Good to know.

He works his way patiently over all of Hannibal's feet and smoothly into his ankles and calves, kissing and caressing between firmer massaging touches.

[cook_the_rude]

"Most studies claim that reflexology has no measurable therapeutic effect at all," Hannibal says, conversationally, into the small room at large. "But I find that the mere knowledge of its existence has an effect on one's well-being. Mind over matter, as so often."

Beat.

"Ohh yes, ahh, that!"

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric chuckles and arches back a moment, shedding his light tunic as he works his way slowly up Hannibal's legs.

He rocks with the music, his small tight breasts brushing against the skin of Hannibal's foot.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal allows his knees to fall apart, opening more skin to Sinric's touch; his toes curl against Sinric's nipples in a quite intentional, almost prehensile, movement.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric purrs; a rough, warm sound as he kisses and caresses the soft skin of Hannibal's inner thigh. His nipples hardening as he brushed them up Hannibal's legs.