(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]

The music warbles in a great crest right along with Sinric's orgasm,and Hannibal keeps suckling him through every last moment of it, saw if savouri g the rare and special taste of his release.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric falls back weakly, his lithe body limp with the shock and joy it it. "Oh Hannibal!" He sighs, his heart still racing.

[cook_the_rude]

The soprano voice has fallen silent, and the melody calms down to the first theme, but now, with each repetition, instruments stop playing, and the music quietens.

Hannibal moves to lie beside Sinric, gather him into his arms, and kiss him deeply, with open lips and playful tongue.

"This is how your pleasure tastes," he whispers, "unique and sweet, like no other. I treasure it as a great privilege, every time you peak for me."

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric lets Hannibal lead the kiss, sighing softly into it. The peak has worn him out and he is soft and sated in Hannibal's arms.

He tucks his head against Hannibal's chest as the kiss breaks, radiating lethargic joy.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal runs his hands through all that blond hair as the music winds down, stroking Sinric gently as he holds him, not marring the lovely lassitude with the need to speak.

[thewidewideworld]

The warmth, the content flow, the safe embrace of Hannibal's arms, the slow unwide of the music. Perfection. Sinric couldn't imagine being happy here than he is at this moment.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal holds him, hands slowing down as the music unwinds, and not speaking again before it has fallen into total silence.

[thewidewideworld]

The music stops and Sinric closes his eyes, affixing this memory to his mind. He leans up and draws Hannibal into a slow, appreciative kiss.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal returns the kiss, languidly, as he gathers Sinric close. "How is your voice?" he whispers.

[thewidewideworld]

He hums. "A little rough." Which is a bit of an understatement. It's quite strained and in need of rest.

[cook_the_rude]

"More of the Icelandic moss, then," Hannibal says, "silence, and sleep. We might want to fall asleep to Bach."

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric nods and gets up to fetch the box of throat sweets and returns to the bed, seeking Bach CD, his lithe naked body moving gracefully as he draws the blinds.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal sprawls on the bed, watching him.

"Thank you," he says.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric kneels over him, kissing him sweetly and soundly before joining him on the bed. He expresses his thanks by cuddling up at his side as Bach begins to play. He rests a hand on Hannibal's chest, silently begging him to stay.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal puts his arms around Sinric, and closes his eyes with a pleased sigh.

He isn't going anywhere.

[thewidewideworld]

Likewise content, Sinric curls against Hannibal's side, closing his eyes.

The music and the warm lethargy soaks into his bones, lulling him to sleep in Hannibal's arms.

{ooc: wrap there? Just lovely!}