(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

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal takes his time, breathing deeply and contentedly.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric does his best to curb his impatience, body tight and all but vibrating. It strange to be the one being strung along and edged to desire. Usually he's the one doing it.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal is stroking the outside of Sinric's thighs, down to the knees, and kissing his navel.

[thewidewideworld]

He whimpers again, his universe narrowing down to sensation and desire. And trust. He closes his eyes, arching into the slow touches.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal runs his finger down the inside of Sinric's thigh, and kissing his lover belly.

The music soars with plaintive beauty.

[thewidewideworld]

His muscles jump, his voice sounding even as he bites his hand to keep silent. The music only serves to edge his desire on with the swell of it.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal's hand stills, and his breath ghosts over the sweet, tiny prick.

[thewidewideworld]

Even that soft breath is enough to make him shiver and moan. His skin is so sensitive, so eager. His little prick, now hard, dances with the ache to be touched.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal touches his tongue to the tip.

[thewidewideworld]

He cries out, his slender hips jerking a little in the strain to stay still.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannnibal takes him by the hip-bones and gives one long lick along the small prick, from the rim of Sinric's hole, over the jagged little scar, up to the very tip.

[thewidewideworld]

There is no way for Sinric to still his voice now. His moan, lust roughened, adds to the swell of voices and music.

[cook_the_rude]

"Shhhh."

Hannibal dips his head, and his next lick starts even deeper.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric lets out a frustrated hiss and turns his head to bury it in one of the soft pillows by his head, taking the silk between his teeth.

He spreads his legs wider, bending one knee up to exposing himself utterly to Hannibal's ministrations.

[cook_the_rude]

Which Hannibal takes as an invitation to lick deeply around Sinric's hole, and into it, as far as it will open to a merely curious tongue.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric forces himself to relax, to open to Hannibal's probing, overruled his desire to clench, to pull Hannibal in as he would with fingers or a manhood.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal rolls his tongue and pushes, boldly and skilfully.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric has met very few skilled or interested in this sort of pleasure, and even less interested in practicing it on him. He tosses his head, hair falling about his face and lip swelling from biting as he moves with the pleasure Hannibal is igniting in him.

[cook_the_rude]

The tip of Hannibal's tongue bestows some liqght licks to Sinric's perineum next.

[thewidewideworld]

He squirms warmly, keening between the notes of the music. His little member strains, harder than he remembers being for a long time.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal hums against the sensitive skin underneath his lips, as if pondering options; then, he kisses the inside of Sinric's thighs and spreads his legs further, positioning himself between them so Sinric's feet can comfortably lie over his shoulders.

He kisses Sinric's hole, lovingly, as he would a mouth.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric spreads himself wide, his silver ankle bells chiming softly as he rests his feet on Hannibal's shoulders, utterly exposed.

He groans and arches, his tightly hole fluttering and wet under the attention.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal slowly licks his way up Sinric's little prick again while pushing a curious fingertip at his hole.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric flexes open, inviting the touch and pushing onto Hannibal's finger as he arches up towards his mouth.

[cook_the_rude]

A long, skilful finger slides inside just as Hannibal takes the tip of the little snail between his lips, and the soprano starts another long, achingly beautiful warble of incomprehensible words.