cook_the_rude | OOM: For Sinric on Halloween

The prints make Sinric smile, copying one of the sweeter poses as he glances over his shoulder to Hannibal.

"I never thought that was completely feasible a pose to hold," Hannibal says, smiling. "But you're doing it very well."

He closes the door behind himself.

"I suspect the tightness of the garments beneath help somewhat." He lingers towards the table, running his fingers ove the polished surface thoughtfully.

"I will hold you by the hips so you won't slide off when I thrust inside you," Hannibal says, smiling.

He shivers in anticipation, biting his lip as he turns back to look up at Hannibal's scruffy chest.

Hannibal comes a step closer, close enough for Sinric to touch his chest.

"As much as I know you loath feeling so barbarous, I confess I admire this." He pulls off his lace gloves with care before tracing the curves of the tattoos.

"I don't loathe your admiration at all," Hannibal says, taking a deep breath.

Sinric leans in, pressing a soft kiss on the crest of one whirl of the ink, leaving a small red mark of lipstick just below one nipple.

Hannibal stretches under the attention, giving a little sigh of pleasure.

He lifts his head to kiss a little higher, his bright red lips brushing Hannibal's nipple.

He reaches for Hannibal's hand, moving them to his narrow waist. He cups Hannibal's cheek and draws him into a rich, passionate kiss.

Hannibal leans forward, grasping Sinric's hips and pouring wildness into the passionate kiss.

The wildness to makes him melt and moan. There is something about the barbaric masculinity that makes him feel wonderfully small.

Still kissing him fiercely, Hannibal backs him towards the diner g table.

He gasps into the kiss as his back bumps against the wood of the table, his hands going back to the surface as if to catch himself. "Yes." He gasps between kisses, wanting Hannibal to be sure this is what he wants.

"Up you go," Hannibal says, grasping Sinric's hips to bodily sit him on the table; then, after another fierce kiss, he pushes up the skirts.

Sinric gasps as Hannibal lifts him effortlessly.

True to the rest of the outfit, He's wearing a longline, shaping girdle and silk stocking. But beneath them, he wears nothing but his own desire.

Hannibal reaches out towards a nearby shelf; olive oil is never far away at his dining table. A well-calculated dollop that won't stain the petticoat goes on Sinric's little snail; it's rubbed all over it, and then downwards into his hole.

Sinric leans back on his hands, arching up into the touch. It's strange how much the skirts and the strange bareness of his shoulders and upper back, he feels even more vulnerable than normal.

He spreads his legs, resting the heeled feet dangling.

Hannibal rubs his oily finger deeper, slipping one into Sinric to open him up.

He dips his head and kisses the bared upper part of Sinric's cleavage, leaving second-hand lipstick stains.

Sinric gasps, clenching around Hannibal's finger and revealing in not having to be quiet this time. Beneath the tight bra, his nipples harden, his exposed skin rife with goosebumps. "Oh yes!"

Hannibal keeps greedily kissing the cleavage, all the exposed goose-bumped flesh, while he adds a second finger, and crooks them, aiming right for the hidden sweet spot inside Sinric.

He lifts his petite rear off the table as he arches up, feeling himself harden and clench as Hannibal stroke that secret place. His voice comes in short, high gasps; sweetly breathless.

After a few more strokes, Hannibal lets go in order to open his own rough leather breeches. His manhood juts out when released, hard and red-tipped, leaking at the slit.

"Ready for it?"

"Always!" Sinric pants, wrapping his legs around Hannibal's waist and sprawling back onto his elbows. "Always want you, always ready and willing!"

"You are delightful!" Hannibal declares; he rubs a little oil over himself, wipes his hand on the back of his own breeches like a barbarian, then grips Sinric's hips with both strong, rough hands and pushes right in.

Sinric's cry is broken, sweet and high as Hannibal's firm thrust fills him. His hand scrabble at the polished surface, utterly at the mercy of Hannibal's strong hands.

Hannibal holds his narrow waist in a strong grip, starting up shallow thrusts that hit home, again and again, against that sweet secret spot.

Sinric's curls bounce with everything thrusts, his stomach muscles clenching as he arches up.

Making love like this on a slippery surface, so utterly under another's control is a new and wonderful experience, the binding tight bra making his breasts ache to be touched.

Keeping his strong grip, Hannibal leans forward to cover Sinric, kissing the top of his cleavage again.

Sinric arches up to his elbows to make his bare shoulders and upper chest easier to reach. He wishes there was some easy way to get the bodice loose but the zipper thing is somewhere he can't reach.

Part of him wonders if Hannibal would rip him out of the dress if he truly was the barbarian he is dressed as. But he knows the kind and thoughtful gentleman never would.

Hannibal reaches around Sinric's back, to unzip the top of the dress, and then unhook the top of the corsetry to free Sinric's little breasts and put his lips to the hard pink nipples.

The gentleman can multitask! Sinric would be very, very grateful. If he wasn't utterly too lost in moaning Hannibal's name.

He wriggles, clenching tight around Hannibal as the good doctor's lips send ripples of pleasure through his body.

"Now we're talking," the gentleman chuckles, lips moving against Sinric's breasts. He keeps thrusting, alternating deep and shallow thrusts, one to fill Sinric up, one to hit his sweet spot, steady and strong.

Sinric clings to him, feeling that chuckle vibrate over his hard and sensitive nipples. The rhythm of Hannibal's thrusts keeps him off-kilter, almost unable to catch his breath. It leaves him wonderfully light headed, his body singing with joy.

Hannibal starts moaning softly against Sinric's nipples, his pleasure apparently getting the better of him.

Sinric falls into his back, arches up so he can free a hand to cup the back of Hannibal's head, burying Hannibal's face in his small breasts. "Please! Don't hold back. I need your pleasure!"

Hannibal's thrusts speed up, and his gasps get more ragged.

His hands are still firm and strong on Sinric's hips.

Edited 2015-11-02 22:47 (UTC)

Sinric cries sweetly, his body thruming. He's still some little way from release himself but that doesn't matter. He wants Hannibal's need, his drive, his hard thrusts and his ragged breath.

Hannibal groans louder as pleasure starts getting the better of him, control actually slipping, rather than just in role-play.

Either way, Sinric is enjoying every moment. His breasts heave with his ragged gasps, clinging to Hannibal as he ride the line of pleasure.

"Not long," Hannibal warns him, but he keeps going, fiercer and faster with every thrust.

Sinric's only answer is to cry out, his voice breathlessly rough and unmistakably joyous. His own release inches closer but the wave won't break in time. But that is far, far from his mind right now, almost a distraction.

Hannibal pounds into Sinric now, wild and strong and fast, groaning. His face still on Sinric's breasts, his lips scrabbling for purchase and his beard scratching sensitive skin, he tries to give as much pleasure as possible before the fall.

Undoubtedly the fair skin of Sinric's chest will be reddened but he doesn't care. None of that matters as much as feeling Hannibal fall apart, to feel him give into his desire.

"Sinric!" Hannibal gases. "I am going to..."

He is slamming into Sinric now, utterly wild.

Sinric clenches tightening around him in a desperate attempt to tip Hannibal over the edge.

And over the edge he goes, splamming into Sinric again as he spills, and spills, and spills, groaning, shouting and pa ring against Sinric's breasts as his orgasm lasts and lasts.

And even after, he keeps thrusting so Sinric will have pleasure to the very last moment, until his manhood fully flags.

Sinric gasps, feeling the power of it wash over him. Hannibal keeps spilling for so long he can feel it fill him, overflowing with those last thrusts.

He puts a gentle hand out to still Hannibal, letting him know it's okay to stop and pulling him close to rest.

The moment Hannibal slips free, though, he lets go and drops to his knees in front of the table, and puts his mouth the Sinriric's hole, sucking up his own copious seed and starting to spread it with lips and tongue, all over that sweet little prick.

The suddenness and strangeness of the feeling flips Sinric's stomach, sending a shock through him that triggers his release almost as soon as Hannibal's mouth is in him.

His cry of surprise is almost brittle and alarmed, the air leaving him in a jolt.

Hannibal gives two or three more languid licks, then slumps forwards, resting his face against Sinric's crotch.

"The taste and scent of your sweet release threading through my intense maleness," he sighs, "is uniquely beautiful."

The orgasm rip through Sinric so hard and sudden it leaves him shattered and weak, panting roughly. He lifts a hand so, so slowly to rest on Hannibal's head.

Hannibal just breathes very slowly and deeply, his face still on Sinric's crotch, as if all energy was finally spent now his partner had peaked as well.

Sinric in content to lay there, chest heaving as he tries to level his breathing. He keep his hand resting in Hannibal's hair.

There is no reason to move, not until they're ready.

"You are comfortable on the lovely table?" Hannibal murmurs against Sinric's thigh.

Sinric goes to speak but stops, having to clear throat to get his voice working again with an effort. "I could ask you the same of the floor but like me, I suspect you lack the energy to rise."

"No," Hannibal says. "Nothing rising."

He gently kisses the tired, soft and slickened little snail.

The soft chuckle turns into a moan and an almost painful shudder of unexpected pleasure at the kiss.

"I like your sex," Hannibal murmurs, tilting his head just a little to kiss Sinric's soft pubic area, where ordinary men or women have hair, "I feel I could snuggle here forever."

That draws something between a sigh and a chuckles. "I don't think it has ever been admired quite so worshippingly before."

"My knees not quite working helps with the worshipping," Hannibal murmurs. "But yes, it is unique and sweet."

Sinric chuckles softly and tries, failingly to get to his elbows and sit up. "Perhaps in your time. You would be spoilt for choice in the golden cage."

"I still like you best," Hannibal says.

"How would you know?" He sighs, trying again to pull himself up. "You might well fall in love with dark eyed Christophorus and his beautiful curls. Or Kir's perfect olive skin. Or Probus with his voice as sweet as mine."

"I like your spirit," Hannibal says. "Your resilience. Your bravery in the face of the unknown. Your loyalty, and your pride in exactly who and what you are. Nope, I like you best."

Sinric sits up and last and leans down to kiss Hannibal deeply, tasting both their pleasure on his lips. "Thank you."

Hannibal kisses him, then falls backwards, tugging lightly on Sinric's fingers before letting go.

"Please join me on this lovely rug."

Sinric eases himself off the table with something less than his normal grace to sprawl happily at Hannibal's side.

He groans softly, sore in all the good ways as he shifts to settle his skirt a little neater and push the corseted bra into a more comfortable postion. "Would you mind terribly if I got undressed? On the dress is wonderful but half off, it's rather a tangle."

"Let me help you with it," Hannibal says, trying to sit up with Sinric in his arms. "There was a plaid here somewhere..."

Getting as far as the bed, the sofa or anything is apparently not an option just now.

"The rug is comfortable enough for now." Sinric purrs, turning his back to Hannibal for help to get out of the tight girdle. His tight victory rolls are starting to fall out onto long curls over his shoulder.

Hannibal undoes the zipper, the girdle, and what else needs opening, the reaches over to pull the plaid off the sofa.

"It's a very comfortable rug," he says. "I could tell you about it's provenance and history, but that would probably be boring."

Sinric is much more content to snuggle naked in Hannibal's arms, gently pushing the garments into a pile to tidy up when he can move. "Tell me? I love the way you value not just the object but it's history and origins. You see things as part of a greater whole rather than just something to walk across." He smiles. "Or lay on."

Hannibal garhers him close, spreading the plaid haphazardly around them both. "It's a silk rug from China," he says. "Not very old, but handmade. It takes months, even years."

Pause.

"You will go there. I've been, but it's not the same, in my time."

Sinric reaches out to run his hand over the soft pile, enjoying the feel of it with the same sensuality he drinks in music and passion. "It's beautiful. What's it like, in your time?"

"It's so easy to get there, with air travel," Hannibal says. "Just a few hours, and then suddenly, China! And it's loud, the air is badly polluted, and the country is moving and growing in all directions at once. The factory of the world, it's called. Much of what the entire planet uses is made there. Clothes, toys, electronics, appliances."

"It doesn't sound very pleasant." He strokes the carpet again, enjoying the colours and textures. "And yet they make such wonderful things."

"That's a traditional craft," Hannibal says, "not one of those cheap things made in those interminable factory cities by almost enslaved labour."

Sinric hums. "Modern people get so very upset about my statue as a slave, and yet what you're talking about sounds barely different."

"No, it's not," Hannibal says. "Somebody is always on the end of the food chain, and people pretend not to care. Just because they are paid a pittance and not whipped doesn't make them free people."

Sinric studies Hannibal's deep maroon eyes, stoking his cheek softly as he tries to work out what emotion is behind those words, sealed in the taciturn mask.

"And they still strive and hope and send home money to their villages, where the grandparents look after the kids, and the working people only return home once a year, for New Year," Hannibal carries on. "People are amazing creatures, even Chinese factory workers."

Beat.

"My unfortunate contemporaries give you trouble for being a slave?"

He smiles softly and leans in to kiss Hannibal, slowly and sweetly. He loves how Hannibal sees the complexity in people, the humanity. Rather than writing them off by categorising them.

He sighs and rest his head on Hannibal's shoulder, tracing the lines of the tattoos that cover his chest. "Some. Some find the idea repulsive and as if I am some how tainted by it. Some wish to lecture me on the evils of a system I have no more power to change than the horses in the stables."

He ducks his head. "And worse, they pour scorn on my beloved master without understanding how fortunate I am to be his, or believing that there can be kindness and love in such a relationship. And then they scorn me for defending him as if I am some whipped child who knows no better." He can feel his eyes film with tears of frustration.

Hanibal kisses him back, and then listens quietly to all Simric has to say. "That is rudely disrespectful of your entire way of life, of everything that has meaning to you," he says. "Just as many Westerners will not accept that a Muslim woman may wear her veil by choice, not because some man forces her. None of these people who criticise you are entirely free, all are part of a system, and many keep in confines as rigid as those of the Chinese factory workers."

"I know they do so out of ignorance and rarely out of malice." With one exception at least. "And drive to believe their way is right. I suppose that only here can one look outside one's own cultures and time but there are few who truly see, or want to look."

"That's because they think history is an upwards spiral, and they're necessarily superior to the past," Hannibal says. "Never mind that the best violins and cellos in my world are several hundred years old, and nobody can duplicate Greek Fire. So they don't need to question either the values of old times, or the values of societies they think are backwards."

"How can the future exist without the past?" Sinric muses, fingers tracing the shapes of the tattoos in a lazy motion. "If those who came before are not respected, how can those who come after learn?"

"They think that the past is their foundation," Hannibal says, "but they've built further; so they respect the past while at the same time thinking themselves superior because they built beyond the foundation. They completely fail to see that history isn't a tower."

"Towers fall and fall again." Sinric sighs, eyes half closed. "No matter how well built."

"History is a sprawling house of labyrinths and ruins, cozy nooks and sudden pitfalls," Hannibal says. "Nothing near as structure as most people believe"

"I like that image." Sinric nods, still happily snuggled. "And even more so that this place is a hall that sits between the rooms."

Hannibal lifts his head just enough to touch his cheek against tousled golden curls. "It sits between them, and none of the rooms that connect to it is in any way preferential. A door is a door."

"And all our doors open somewhere different." He hums philosophically. "You make me wish I had the gift of a poet, to spin a net of words around that image."

"Different," Hannibal says, "but equal. The only place that stands beyond, in some way, is this one."

"I can't but wonder if any of the great poets came here before is. If epics have been sung, weaving in the tales of a place that stands beyond but without knowing, the listeners didn't regard it. Has this place has other names in the memories of man, recognised only by those who already knew it."

"It might have," Hannibal says. "And it's a thought, to explain why so many stories transcend so many worlds, and we meet those from our stories here."

Pause.

"That doesn't fully explain the different versions, though."

"Perhaps memory and culture tints the way we see the place. Or the way we tell the tale."

He falls silent a moment, hand paused on Hannibal's chest. "I want to tell my Lord before he dies. I want him to know the truth."

"How are you going to do it?" Hannibal asks, running his hand over Sinric's bare shoulders.

He sighs, leaning into the touch. "A song. I've been writing it for some time now. It's... not very good. It's the first time I've written anything this complex."

"Would you like to sing it to me, later?" Hannibal says. "For some constructive criticism?"

"I would like that very much." Sinric smiles, sweet and a little vulnerable. "It's in the Greek of my time but you speak it well."

"I do," Hannibal says, "and I would very much like to hear it."

"Then when we are both rested, I would be glad to sing it for you. I still... there are parts of it I am yet to be happy with."

"I will be glad to help you with them," Hannibal promises.

He strokes Sinric's warm skin, and falls silent for the moment.-

[[OOC: Fade here?]]

{ooc: perfect. That was lovely!}

OOM: For Sinric on Halloween

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