(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]

"I take that as the highest compliment." He purrs, his voice still hoarse but regaining strength.

[cook_the_rude]

"Semen salves sore throats," Hannibal muses. "I didn't know that before now, and will commit it to memory."

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric chuckles warmly and nuzzles Hannibal's neck. "Perhaps it is the salve of your company. And the wonder of your gift."

[cook_the_rude]

"Don't talk too much, too soon," Hannibal says, his hand roaming idly over Sinric's skin. "We don't want your voice to go again. I was wondering whether you'd manage to stay silent while I'd pleasure you, of you'd stay quiet as a snail while yours extended its feelers to the utmost."

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric laughs warmly and presses a finger to his lips, hushing himself.

Its the first time anyone has compared his tiny member to a snail aloud and the image makes him smile.

He lays back, offering himself up to Hannibal's pleasure. Hannibal need only choose the music.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal sits up, and puts in another CD. The apparatus clicks, but no music starts. This seems to be right, as Hannibal returns to the bed, gives Sinric a pleased look, and then lies beside him to start again gently, by kissing Sinric's lips and stroking his clavicles.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric strains to listen for the music, wondering what song answers his pleasure.

He purrs, tucking his hand behind his head in surrender to Hannibal will.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal's hand slides further, to touch the tip of one of Sinric's breasts. There may be a low hum now, not quite music yet, and hardly audible.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric arches, his nipples hardening as the soft him builds. Just as his pleasure builds.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal is still kissing him, slowly and gently, almost lovingly; a finger wanders around the slightly puckered rim of an Arellano.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric hums warmly, his milky skin warm and silky beneath Hannibal's touch.

And receptive, so receptive. He flexes and arches, moaning softly into the kiss.

[cook_the_rude]

The music is becoming audible now, swelling very slowly as more and more instruments join into the repeating theme; but so, so slowly. Sinric's little hum melts right into it.

Hannibal's finger slides into the dip between Sinric's breasts, and up the other side.

[thewidewideworld]

Such prophetic and powerful music. It grows in Sinric like the slow swell of pleasure building inside him.

[cook_the_rude]

When the music crosses the threshold between hum and melody, Hannibal dips his head and puts strong, mobile lips to one nipple while his hand still caresses the other.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric moan adds to the texture of the melody, sweet and a little roughed. He cards an hand through Hannibal's perfect hair, his lithe little body warming swiftly with passion.

[cook_the_rude]

"Shhh," Hannibal says, lips moving on the sensitive pink skin of the nipple. "Your voice."

He licks over the very tip.

[thewidewideworld]

"Ah!" It's painful hard to rest his voice when Hannibal is teasing his deeply sensitive nipples.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal's hand is now roaming circles over Sinric's stomach, following the lines of the lean dancer's muscles, while his lips keep paying homage to those beautiful, generous nipples.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric ripples under his touch, his body moving with grace and joy.

His little snail starts to fill, little by little, reacting to the good doctor's ministrations and the sweep of the music.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal's fingers are now teasing Sinric's navel, one or two of them straying lower, accidentally on purpose.

[thewidewideworld]

Again Sinric's voice sounds, high and sweet and wondrous. He spreads his legs wider, opening and offering himself. Surrendering without shame or reservation.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal is stroking Sinric's lower stomach, and the inside of his thighs, but isn't touching his tiny prick yet.

"Shhhh," he says, still against that thoroughly laved nipple.

He lifts his head, but just to suckle the other one.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric covers his mouth with a soft laugh, finding it hard to quiet himself when Hannibal is doing such a wonderful job of exciting him.

[cook_the_rude]

A casual finger wanders down the inside of Sinric's thigh, from the knee to his groin, as the music swells and changes.

All the instruments have woken up and joined in, and now seem ready to do something.

[thewidewideworld]

The anticipation makes Sinric groan, his body aching and sensitised for more. The swell of the music begs for more too; boighter, stronger.

"Please?" He begs softly.