OOM: Treating Sinric's ankle

[cook_the_rude]

 Hannibal's office is dimmer today, the windows largely covered by dark grey blackout blinds to keep out the summer sun, while two lamps, one by the couch, the other stooped over the drawing table, provide islands in the soft gloom.

The prints on the wall, still mostly Istanbul, and harem scenes, have now been joined by a series from the 18th century depicting Farinelli in different operatic costumes that all have ridiculously huge and long plumes on the helmet or hats in common.

Hannibal puts down the exhausted Sinric on the couch and then fetches his medical bag from the closed bottom part of the book case.

Comments

[cook_the_rude]

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."

[thewidewideworld]

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.

[cook_the_rude]

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!"

[thewidewideworld]

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.

[cook_the_rude]

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

[thewidewideworld]

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.

[cook_the_rude]

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

[thewidewideworld]

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.

[cook_the_rude]

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.

[thewidewideworld]

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.

[cook_the_rude]

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.

[thewidewideworld]

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.

[cook_the_rude]

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

"Thank you," he whispers.

[thewidewideworld]

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

[cook_the_rude]

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

[thewidewideworld]

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.

[cook_the_rude]

"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."

[thewidewideworld]

"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.

[cook_the_rude]

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

[thewidewideworld]

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.

[cook_the_rude]

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

[thewidewideworld]

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.

[cook_the_rude]

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."

[thewidewideworld]

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

[cook_the_rude]

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.