cook_the_rude | OOM: Treating Sinric's ankle

Hannibal's couch is rapidly become as familiar as his own bed in Milliways.

Exhausted and miserable, he pulls one of the cushions to him and hugs it to his chest. Slow tears still trickle down his cheek but he doesn't speak.

Hannibal gives him a handkerchief to cry into, then sits at the foot of the couch and takes the injured foot in his lap.

Sinric doesn't protest but his ankle is badly swollen and very inflamed. He covers his mouth with the handkerchief to keep from crying out.

"This may hurt a little," the doctor says, unwrapping the temporary bandage, "but once I find what exactly is injured, I can give you painkillers before bandaging it properly."

He bends over Sinric's foot, and kisses the swollen ankle. "I'll take good care of you, Sinric."

He nods his assent, watching the doctor through heavy lashes. The pain doesn't bother him. If anything, it's right that he should be hurt after failing Athelstan so utterly.

But the soft kiss melts his pinched expression a little and he reaches down to rest a hand on the doctor's shoulder. "Thank you. You are kinder than I deserve."

The doctor looks up at him, his maroon eyes direct and inscrutable at once; a deep look of which one can't be sure what it means.

"You deserve all my help," he says. "You are very worried about somebody who is more than a friend, and will probably not look forward having to talk with Ragnar about what happened."

He shakes his head. "I swore to Ragnar I would watch over Athelstan. And I have failed. If he strikes me down for it, it will be no less than I deserve."

"He should not hit you," the doctor says, gently moving the foot in his lap and probing the ankle bones and tendons with skilled fingers.

It will probably hurt hellishly.

"If he did that, he'd be no more than the brute history thinks Vikings to be; and I know that he is not."

Sinric bites back a whimper at the manipulation of his ankle, trying not to cry out.

He doesn't believe in his heart that Ragnar would hit him but that doesn't change that he feels he would deserve it. "I swore to protect the one he loves most in all the world and I have failed. It would be his right."

Edited 2015-08-10 23:15 (UTC)

"He has no right to do that," the doctor assures him. "And nothing is broken here; at least that. I'm going the give you some local anaesthetic before treating and bandaging it."

He takes something from his bag, a something with a glass vial connected to a long needle.

Sinric nods but says nothing, his eyes still wet with tears. He recognises the needle from last time and doesn't shy away, letting the doctor do what he needs to do.

The doctor slides the needle under Sinric's skin, then presses the plunger and allows the liquid to run into the swollen flesh around his ankle.

"It'll take a while to work," he says, leaning over to kiss the tears from Sinric's eyes.

Edited 2015-08-10 23:54 (UTC)

Sinric shifts to kiss his lips, somewhat fervently. He needs- something, someone to distract him from the pain in his heart, the fear that he has killed Athelstan with his neglect, the fear Ragnar will hate him which would be far, far worse than the Viking beating him. He kisses Hannibal even as he cries.

Hannibal takes Sinric's face between both his hands and kisses him, deeply and tenderly, as if trying to smother all Sinric's worries with his generous lips.

Sinric's kisses are desperate and breathless and he whines softly, trying to pull Hannibal closer to him.

"You are safe with me," Hannibal murmurs into their increasingly intense kisses, letting Sinric come as close as he wants.

Sinric presses bodily against him, wrapping his arms around the doctor. "Please?" He's not even sure what it is he's begging for, only that he needs something.

"A therapist doesn't usually do this," the doctor chuckles, but he complies for the moment: he pulls Sinric close and puts his hands on his buttocks, encouraging him to straddle his lap.

He doesn't stop kissing him.

Sinric straddles Hannibal's lap, giving a small and soft groan as he shifts his swollen ankle and bruised hand. A dark bruise is forming on his cheek from where he tumbled on the stairs but he doesn't notice it.

He breaks the kiss for a moment, resting his head on Hannibal's shoulder. "Forgive me, I have no right to ask this of you."

"But I'll be glad to give it to you, lovely Sinric," Hannibal says, leaning his cheek against Sinric's hair while stroking his back. "I'll just have to treat the ankle first, and then you can have anything you want from me -- comfort, kisses, or pleasure."

Sinric nods like an obedient child and leans into the embrace. "Yes, of course. Thank you for taking such good care of me."

"I care about you, Sinric," the doctor says. "So I'll take care of you. Sit on the couch again for a moment so I an do what I have to, and then we can do what we want to."

He follows this with another kiss.

He moves to the couch and stops to push his golden hair back from his face, his expression soft and warm. He sets his ankle at an easy angle to access. "I care for you too, sir. Your kindness and care of me moves my heart."

Hannibal smiles into Sinric's eyes, and then bends over to take out some things from his medical bag.

He spreads a cloth in his lap, sets the injured foot on it, and then liberally slathers the ankle with the pleasant-smelling gel he had used on Sinric the other time. The scent might remind him of last time; on the other hand, it has been a long while.

Not long enough. It triggers the memory of being bent over this very couch, in both pain and trust in Hannibal's ministrations. Desire confused with pain.

But he closes his eyes and clears his mind, as Hannibal taught him to do, focusing not on the smell of the gel but on the scent of Hannibal's kiss, still lingering on his lips.

When he finishes with the gel, Hannibal lifts the injured foot gently by the heel, playfully kisses the big toe, covers the gel-daubed ankle with gauze and then starts to tightly bandage the foot in place, tightly, with an elastic bandage.

"This would hurt a lot without the anaesthetic," the doctor says, "and even so, it might feel quite unpleasant -- please tell me if it gets too bad."

"I will." He promises softly. "Thank you for looking after me so well."

The kisses on his foot make him smile. He has the feet of a dancer; small and nimble, his ankles slender. It's easy to see how he turned it so easily.

After the foot is securely wrapped and fastened with some sort of furry fabric from the future that sticks, the doctor turns his attention to Sinric's hand and cheek, but does nothing excep thinly spread some of the gel.

"It will look nasty for a while," he says, "but it'll heal easily."

He kisses Sinric's other cheek.

"All done!"

Sinric turns into the kiss and returns it. The edge of urgency is gone but the passion is still there, needy but not straining as he was.

Hannibal gathers him into his arms again, and pulls him back into his lap. "Where were we..." he murmurs against Sinric's lips, kissing him.

He puts his hands on Sinric's hips and pulls him closer, so with Sinric straddling him, the little pricklet will rub against the hardness at the apex of Hannibal's trousers, through several layers of fabric -- but there, making itself felt.

Sinric can't help but moan as their bodies meet, rubbing his tiny cock against Hannibal's staining one through their clothes. "Sir, I desire-" he breaks off in another soft moan.

"Less fabric, to start with," Hannibal murmurs, his hands encouraging Sinric to move. "And perhaps you'd enjoy to keep straddling me, impaling yourself on me to ride me?"

Hannibal's words go directly to Sinric's groin and he groans softly. "Yes! Please, sir. I'd like that very much."

He pulls the long skirts of his stola over his head, naked beneath. There are more bruises on his side, arm and hip but he pays them no mind, reaching for the buttons of Hannibal's shirt.

Hannibal hums appreciatively, his hands gliding over the other bruises. "We'll put heparin gel on those later," he promises.

And then, he puts both his hands on Sinric's breasts, thumbs teasing the pink, perky nubs on top of them.

The bruises aren't sore enough to hurt yet, just colouring on his milky skin.

His hands shake to a stop on Hannibal's shirt as the doctor teases his breasts. The overlarge nipples harden swiftly under his touch. He arches his back, feeling his worries pushed by by the flood of sensation.

Hannibal dips his head and puts his lips to one of those nipples while his hands slide between Sinric's buttocks.

Sinric whimpers and spreads his legs wider, inviting more. He should be pleasuring Hannibal, giving as he has been trained to do but tonight he wants and needs to be overwhelmed, to be taken.

His hands clench around the cloth of Hannibal's shirt, whimpering richly.

Hannibal has something else in his medical bag, some other gel, that he puts on his finger without even taking his mouth away from Sinric's breast.

Sinric manages to free the last button of Hannibal's shirt, his hands roaming freely over the doctor's chest as he moans.

The feel of the doctor's generous lips on his breasts sends shudders through him, causing the little snail to unfold and fill as he rocks against him with little involuntary jerks of his hips.

Hannibal slips his fingers back into Sinric's cleft, and then breaches his hole, sliding in the middle finger to the second knuckle.

His other hand reaches between them to touch the tip of the little pricklet before opening the buttons on his trousers to free his own cock.

Sinric cries out with joyously intensity as Hannibal opens him, almost not feeling the touch on his tiny, useless member for the pleasure of pushing back against that invading finger. He rocks against it, greed for more.

Hannibal adds a second finger, and pushes both of them in deeper.

His other hand slides further between Sinric's legs, rubbing the entire length of his member.

His cock is following suit.

"Please, sir!" He whimpers, rocking against him. "Please, I'm implore you, enter me!" Sinric wriggles in Hannibal's lap, begging to be fucked. He has dreamed too long of having the doctor inside him and now it is all he think of.

Hannibal strokes his slick fingers over his own cock once, leaving it smooth and shine.

"Come, sit on me," he says, putting his hands on Sinric's hips to make him rise up. "All yours for the taking."

He pulls him close, and trusts up, towards Sinric's hole.

Sinric sinks down on him with a deep sigh, feeling himself filled and stretched around him. He take Hannibal to the root, sheathing himself utterly.

He rests his hands on Hannibal's shoulders to steady himself. His eyes flutter, gasping as he lifts himself, finding that place inside him as he moves slowly.

Hannibal pushes up, aiming at that very point that makes Sinric gasp.

Sinric cries out warmly and starts to fuck himself in earnest, impairing himself over and over. His soft, high voice rings out, his eyes half closed as his gives himself over to the sensation.

Hannibal reaches out to touch Sinric's breasts, rubbing his thumbs over those sweet, generous pink nipples.

Sinric closes his eyes and lets the sensation pour over him, making no effort to stifle his sounds.

He should feel guilty - to be enjoying the luxuries of the flesh while Athelstan suffers because of his neglect but he cannot bring himself to think on that. Or on anything but the glide of the doctor's prick within him and rub of the doctor's strong thumbs on his breasts. If he lets himself think, for even a moment he will fall apart again and his dispair will consume him.

Hannibal leans in to kiss him, his hips and thumbs still moving strongly.

Sinric sinks into the kiss, moaning richly. He buries his fingers in the doctor's hair, carding it softly as he rocks against him. He finds just the right tempo, indulging in pleasure without driving himself to the edge while still keeping everything enjoyable for Hannibal. He could gladly go on like this for some time.

So, it seems, can Hannibal. He gasps softly, rocks his hips upwards in time with Sinric's movements, and uses his hands and mouth on Sinric's breasts to good effect, drawing more moans.

"You can see," he murmurs, when next kissing Sinric's lips, "how this is just like music."

Its wonderful to have a partner in no great hurry to find completion. Who can go on and on and enjoy the unhurried pleasure.

Hannibal's mention of music makes him smile and he starts to sing. A simple Greek fisherman's song, it's rhythm meeting perfectly the thrusts and rises of his thighs as he rides Hannibal's cock. His moans makes the words rise and fall, wonderfully breathless and erotic.

Hannibal quietly sheds his shirt that was still restricting his arms and back; his movements time themselves to the song, to which he contributes nothing but small gasps and hums.

"Song is natural to you," he says, lips moving on Sinric's left nipple as he speaks, "as breathing. This is the root of the duet" -- thrust -- "and the pas-de-deux!"

His voice rises as Hannibal teases his nipples, sending excited shivers through his body. The tempo of the song picks up with his need, the melody shifting just as naturally. He nuzzles Hannibal's hair, his ear, singing just for him and very glad to share the duet with him.

"Crescendo," Hannibal moans, picking up the tempo and echoing it in his moans and movements.

Sinric changes his song to something faster, harder, rougher. His voice grows rough with it, wanting to feel Hannibal's need, to drive him to his own crescendo.

"You need it now," Hannibal murmurs, "do you?"

He nods, his song growing reckless and strong. He will not peak, not this night but he needs Hannibal's release just the same. He needs to feel Hannibal lose control, to feel him spill into Sinric.

Hannibal takes hold of Sinric's hips with strong hands, and starts thrusting upwards with much greater urgency, groaning with every thrust.

Hitting home with every thrust, too, as if refusing to accept that Sinric might not peak.

Sinric won't and can't. Not this time. It is as much a matter of mind as of body and through the pleasure is great, his headspace is off.

But that doesn't mean there isn't great pleasure in it for him. He tries to keep singing, the air pushed out of him with each joyously thrust, counterpane to Hannibal's groans.

Hannibal speeds up, his breathing becomes ragged and the rhythm syncopated, and then he spills himself into Sinric in long, hot spurts, his head thrown back in one long moan, thrusting all the while.

A man's cock doesn't deflate like a pricked balloon, after all, more like a quickly wilting plant, and Sinric will have every last moment that Hannibal can give him.

Sinric closes his eyes with a long, warming sigh, feeling himself flooded with Hannibal's seed. He slows his thrusts and his song to a soft ballad and leans into him, tucking himself cuddled against Hannibal's chest.

Fear and self loathing for his failure wait like a cold wind to attack him again but he hides from it in the warm lee of the doctor's arms.

Edited 2015-08-12 20:52 (UTC)

The doctor holds him in his arms, slowly kissing a line down Sinric's shoulder.

"Thank you," he whispers.

"It is I who should be thanking you, sir." He returns the soft kisses with nuzzles and gentle strokes. "I was in much need."

"I trust this gave you what you needed," Hannibal says, lying back on the couch and finally taking off his trousers all the way.

Edited 2015-08-12 21:08 (UTC)

Sinric moves with him, lifting himself up but not all the way off to make it easier for the doctor to make himself comfortable.

He nods and smiles shyly. "You did, sir. And I thank you greatly for it. I hope you will forgive my fault in not pleasuring you well." Enjoying himself with properly seeing to his partner's needs is to fail in his duty.

"This was amazing, and satisfied me very deeply," Hannibal says. "The next time, I'm going to make you orgasm again; but this time, I took your lead."

"Thank you." He answers honestly and openly. "I am sure I would have, even with your most ardent efforts. My heart weights too heavily." The cold of grief is creaking back on him now.

"Sir, would you permit me another kindness? Would it be acceptable to you if I was to stay with you tonight? I... do not wish to be alone this night." He asks it cautiously, half expecting to be denied.

"Of course you can stay," Hannibal says. "But it would be more comfortable of we went upstairs, to my room."

Sinric nods and gives him a grateful hug before lifting himself off Hannibal with care.

He reaches for his discarded stola and slips it back on, careful on his swollen ankle.

Hannibal goes and finds a robe in the little bathroom. Apparently, he doesn't feel much like putting his clothes back on.

Sinric has goes quiet and introspective in the aftermath of their lovemaking, his eyes distance as he waits for Hannibal. The bruise on his cheek makes him look small and fragile, half hidden by his hair.

Hannibal reaches out for Sinric, running a finger down his cheek.

"It was a very stressful day for you," he says. "Lean on me, and let's go."

The touch seems to bring him to himself and he nods, leaning into Hannibal's support as they go.

Even with the local which is starting to wear off now, the going is slow and painful. Sinric doesn't cry out but he lean heavily on Hannibal, tears forming in his eyes

Hannibal takes him upstairs, slowly and gently, wiping the tears from his eyes with a soft fingertip as they go.

The room is quite simple, for Hannibal's standards.

There is a book case full of well-worn old books, a small fireplace with a comfortable-looking chair, some historical prints of Florence, and a small harpsichord. There's a desk, and a desk chair to go with it. Most furniture is vintage midcentury modern, unobtrusively luxurious and classic. He even has what must be a small kitchen, made up from two towers and an island.

Everything is rich, warm wood and mature colours -- an off-grey, and some accents in oxblood red.

He tries not to complain of the pain. After all, Athelstan's suffering must be so much greater. His poor bleeding feet. The memory makes him gasp, which Hannibal may hear as his own pain.

He takes the room in, surprised by the simplicity of it and looks to the bathroom beyond. "May I refresh myself?"

"Of course," Hannibal says. "Let me just put something over your bandage so if doesn't get wet."

"Thank you." He goes silent again, blinking to come back to himself. "Forgive me, sir. I fear I'm not myself tonight."

Hannibal gets some clear plastic foil from one of the kitchen towers, and gestures for Sinric to sit down.

"I' going to get the bed ready while you're in the bath," he says conversationally while wrapping the bandaged foot in that rather sticky, thin layer. "I don't like rooms dominated by beds, unless they're bedrooms, so my bed folds out. It's hidden in the base of that book-case over there. All those books make a nice bed head."

"You do not like to see your bed?" Sinric asks confused, sitting and letting Hannibal cover his ankle. "I have always seen a bed as warm and inviting - either to sleep or to play. And my lord's bed is the finest ever build." More architecture than furniture.

"Not while I'm reading or working," Hannibal says. "I lived in this room for over a year while the bar refused to let me go."

"You were trapped here? I did not know that could happen. I have known myself that the door is fickle but I thought that only from without, not from within."

"From within as well," Hannibal says. "They call it being Bound; that doesn't just happen to dead people."

He finishes wrapping the ankle.

"There -- safe for a bath or shower. I'll reapply some heparin gel to the other bruises before we sleep."

Sinric rises and kisses Hannibal's cheek very tenderly. "I know not what I have done to deserve the care you show me but I will strive to be worth of it."

He makes his way to the shower, making sure he is clean all over before entering the doctor's bed.

The doctor has pulled out the bed, which is large and generous and looks nothing like an improvised folding bed, and is sitting up in it already, reading a small book.

On the glass table beside the bed, two glasses of water and the heparin gel are ready.

Sinric returns after only a short time, enough to cleanse himself and wash out his hair. He returns naked, having set the torn stola aside to repair later, his long hair twisted up in a swift braid.

"Come here," Hannibal says, putting the book aside and reaching for the gel. "Let's make this quick, and then we can sleep, and you can recover from the blow you had, both physical and emotional. Sleep is good for that."

Sinric nods and goes where the doctor directs him, careful of his ankle thought the hot water has taken some of the ache from it.

His eyes are already heavy and he moves with an exhausted sluggishness. He touches the doctor's shoulder lightly as gel is spread on his bruises, carelessness muttering his thanks in Greek.

The doctor puts the gel aside and opens his arm to Sinric.

"Lie on your side beside the covers," he says, "so the gel gets to dry; I'll cover you up if you fall asleep."

Sinric goes to him gladly, like a tired child. But the view as he stretches out on the bed is anything but child-like.

From behind, half turned, he is a vision of androgynous beauty. His small, heart-shaped buttocks, the sweep of his back, the fall of his golden hair in its long braid swept over his neck. He should have been a grecian muse or a renaissance model rather than a Byzantine slave.

He's sleep almost at once.

He'll wake up in the morning, safely covered and held in Hannibal's arms, comfortable against his chest.

It is a relief to wake in the arms of someone he trusts but he wakes knowing what he must do. He slips as silently out of bed as he can, gathering his clothes and seeking the means of leaving a note.

There are paper and pens on the desk.

He leaves the note in English, his handwriting ornate and careful.

Forgive me, sir. I must seek Earl Ragnar and tell him what has befallen his steward.

Your care of me is beyond measures and my thanks poor but you have my gratitude everlasting.

OOM: Treating Sinric's ankle

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