OOM: With Sinric in a New Orleans hotel

[cook_the_rude]

The hotel room is dark and plush, wood matte and gilt faded, and still it exudes a well-cared-for decadence that is somewhere between antebellum and fin-de-siecle.

Sinric marvels at how Hannibal has a knack for finding such places. "Lovely." he smiles, not expecting something quite so refined.

"Would you unlace me, please?" He unclips the feathered tailpiece and sets it aside, rolling his shoulder to offer Hannibal his back -- a back still slightly red from the wall of the alley.

Hannibal drops a kiss to the nape of Sinric's neck, and begins to undo the corset. Sinric gives a soft, graceful sigh and holds the front of the corset in place as Hannibal unlaces him. Where his lips touched, there's a lingering trace of gold under Sinric's skin.

"It is you who are the loveliest in here," Hannibal says, peering at them both in the age-spotted gilt-framed mirror.

Comments

[thewidewideworld]

"High praise from one who sees deeper than my skin." Sinric meets his eyes in the mirror. "Who knows my secrets and has seen my weakest parts."

[cook_the_rude]

"Just so," Hannibal says, holding the gaze. "The magic and the suffering and all the historical crossroads held in one body. You are probably the one most crucial person of your time that history does not remember in books. In the antlers of possibility, you are a strong stem that anybody counting the ends will not notice. That gives you a strength beyond any personal weakness you might deplore."

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric lowers his eyes, colouring with the praise. "Is that really how you see me?"

[cook_the_rude]

"Beyond the beauty of your form, the familiarity of your presence, and the unique tang of your pleasure?" Hannibal says. "Yes."

[thewidewideworld]

He reaches back to stroke Hannibal's hair, eyes holding Hannibal's. "I would have had you kill that man, if he had not relented. I could not have watched. Not for fear but because he did remind me too much of Yan. But I would have partaken of him with you, if you'd offered."

[cook_the_rude]

"Had he not relented, I would have," Hannibal says. "I still might, should I see him again tonight, and should he be rude."

[thewidewideworld]

He turns and draws Hannibal into a kiss. "I wish I could have introduced you to Yan. You would have liked him."

[cook_the_rude]

"I am sure I would have," Hannibal says. "And I would have loved to see the world you lived in together."

[thewidewideworld]

He turns to look back at the mirror, at the shape he and Hannibal make against the warm red light of the lamp. "He was honest and forthright, measured in thought and swift in action."

He runs his fingers down the centre of his own chest, past the curves of his breasts. "For all I would never have changed him, I still wish he had desired me."

[cook_the_rude]

"We share the fate on not coming first to those that come first for us," Hannibal murmurs.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric sighs sadly, feeling as if his heart is laid open, his chest peeled back along the line he just touched and his innermost parts spread for all to see. He stares at the mirror as if seeing it, his skin flayed back and his still-beating heart the colour of Hannibal's eyes.

"I was Constatine's first. Above his wife, above his sons. That should have been enough for me. Sometimes I feel as if I will never be loved that way again. Never be more than-" He huffs a bitter laugh, looking away from his own dissection, "Sloppy seconds."

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal runs his hand down Sinric's chest, as if stroking and soothing the beating, bleeding heart.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric cups Hannibal's cheek, kissing the corner of his lips. "You deserve better than my moroseness."

He let his hand slip down to Hannibal's, tangling their fingers. "Share a shower with me?"

[cook_the_rude]

"Yes," Hannibal says. "And wash it all away. The man's touch, the pain, his rudeness, the crust of blood memory has left on your skin."

[thewidewideworld]

"There are times in not sure if I'm seeing through my eyes or yours." Sinric comments almost lightly.

The bathroom was simple but big enough for them both. As if in answer to the city's humid heat, Sinric runs the shower a little cooler than normal, feeling his nipples harden and his breath catch as he stepped under it.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal smoothly steps in after him, running his hands over Sinric's nipples as if astonished they had closed again over his heart.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric moans, arching his back to press into Hannibal's hands and back against his hard body. He reaches up, balanced in his toes to wrap his fingers around the neck of the shower rose. A lithe body in surrender rather than a hung carcass.

[cook_the_rude]

With the flowing, skin-warm water, Hannibal's hands move over Sinric's body, both cleaning and caressing, as he holds him secure.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric lets his head fall back, water flowing down his mane of hair. It feels as if Hannibal is gently slough off his skin. Stripping back the dirt and sweat and blood and weight of humanity. Like a snake shedding its skin to reveal something new and clean. Something golden and other.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal's finger runs down the middle of Sinric's body, from his chest to his groin, the golden curls there, the tip of his little snail.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric moans and arches, flexing his toes to keep his balance as Hannibal's touch warms him. The tip of Hannibal's finger sparks a line of gold on Sinric's skin, spreading like dancing flames.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal marvels at the blindness of those rude fools who aren't even able to see a spark, a hint, of what Sinric is and can do, running his flat hands all over Sinric's front, in worship of that shimmer.

[thewidewideworld]

Each touch draws a whimper for Sinric, his skin alight.

Others don't see the light, the gold. Don't want to see it. Nor does Sinric show it, to people unworthy. To those he doesn't trust with the secrets of himself.

But Hannibal brings it out in him, coaxes it to kindle and spread.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal cups and strokes Sinric's breasts, bending his head to Sinric's neck and inhaling the delightful and unique scent of him as he nibbles and kisses.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric closes his eyes and lets the vision overtake him. Overtake them both as he has no fear of letting Hannibal into the heart of him.

His body is no longer flesh and blood but liquid gold, textured like the skin of a snake. Just as Hannibal's is the black of blood in moonlight. He presses his breasts into Hannibal's hands, stretching his back as something swells under his shoulder blades, the skin distorting.

[cook_the_rude]

Beyond the realm of reality, skin does not restrain the power of life, and the shimmering darkness that suffuses the gold like reverse kintsukuroi makes it crackle all the brighter.

Hannibal makes space for him to unfold.

[thewidewideworld]

The wings that force themselves out of his skin are more Greek Sphinx than anything angelic or demonic. Sharp, swept back curves, feathered with flames. They drip molten gold onto the Horned God's black skin, releasing ripples of sensation and pleasure as the water washes them away.

In the place beyond, beyond flesh and breath, beyond the concrete, they can be, and are.

[cook_the_rude]

Gold on black, and black on gold -- that is as it should be.

It might be a waterfall in the forest they are standing in as their wild nature breaks free, or an ornate fountain in a wide palace courtyards, after soldiers, servants and nobles alike have fled from the edemons appearing in their midst.

[thewidewideworld]

Or a ravished temple of white marble, warm rain falling through broken tiles.

Sinric turns and pulls Hannibal into a hungry kiss, fingers closing around his branched horns to pull him close.

[cook_the_rude]

Warm rain making pale red splashes on the white, hissing on Sinric's gold and sinking unseen into the pitch-black of Hannibal's form.

He lifts his head, antlers pulling Sinric upwards and his hands caress the wings.

[thewidewideworld]

The strength of the Horned God makes him gasp as he's lifted off his feet, wrapping arms and wings around Hannibal. His feathers are sharp and at the same time soft, bending and crackling like gold leaf to the touch. A touch that sends Sinric into breathless gasps of sensation.

[cook_the_rude]

The blood on wings is black where it spatters and flows: it crackles and vanishes; and where the oozing darkness enters the fiery gold at Sinric's very core, it transmutates -- into hardened lava first, heating up to the dark red glow of an imminent eruption.

[thewidewideworld]

The heat of it fuels his desire, making him hunger for more. More blood, more passion, more heat. "Bed." He moans, half begging, half demanding.

[cook_the_rude]

The Horned One hums his assent and carries him, smooth and sure, as if on the broad feathered back of a black stag, over to the bed, where he bends slowly, to allow the wings to lie smooth and open as the sink down together.

[thewidewideworld]

The golden one's wings spread out and up, tips meeting above his head to form a halo. He strokes his hands down the Horned One's flanks, feeling black feathers and oil-slick smooth skin.

[cook_the_rude]

The strong, broad back ripples and shifts under Sinric's touch as the dark creature moves and writhes within him.

[thewidewideworld]

"Be." Sinric whispers, arching up to kiss the hollow of Hannibal's throat, tasting blood and sweetness and skin. "See."

[cook_the_rude]

The antlers rise high above as the darkness of their bearer thrusts deep into the fiery gold, melting with abandon where he touches the core.

[thewidewideworld]

The golden one cries out in joy and pleasure as he's breached and entered. Long sharp wing rise to embrace, cutting and burning where they touch, melting into the blackness to spread over the dark one's skin in marbled swirls.

[cook_the_rude]

From where they merge, mingle and move, a glow radiates through the dark one, warming up the midnight of his being.

His breath is warm and strong as it speeds up, the huff of a great beast stalking through the cold under a near-new moon.

[thewidewideworld]

The golden one twists, rolling them over to mount the dark one. Riding the great beast. He leans in, planting passionate hungry kisses and stroking the strong stems of the dark one's horns.

Wingtips red with blood and heat bury themselves in the horned god's shoulder, just below the collarbone. Sharing heat and sensation like a closed loop, growing with the sharing.

There will be a point of ignition. A point when they melt and meld utterly. When sensation becomes too much.

The golden one lunges forward with each thrust, wrists and arm pierced on branches of the dark one's horns.

[cook_the_rude]

The dark one moves within and beneath him, writhing and pumping and spilling, minutely yet; droplet by droplet the lava enters the gold.

[thewidewideworld]

The golden one arches and cries, tearing himself on the dark god's horns, ripping the horned god's flesh with his sharp edged wings. He bites into the kiss, tasting iron and sulphur and sex. Ever movement of their joined body is closer, higher, harder, hotter. The room around them should be burning with the heat they give off. The very air rippling with it.

The golden one throws his head back and sings!

[cook_the_rude]

The dark one, thrusting and thrusting and thrusting, provides rhythm and counterpoint to the song.

[thewidewideworld]

The song becomes brighter, louder. Their skin pulses with the melodies, their hearts beating as one. Echoes come back, strange and otherworldly. Built of more than one voice.

And then stillness, quivering and tight. A precipice. A blade's edge.

[cook_the_rude]

Pause.

Pause.

Pause.

The lava erupts, fiery and smoking, sparks settling in the gold.

[thewidewideworld]

The silenced sound became a breathless scream of pleasure, dying into rough pants and the two bodies, now one, burned in a fire of pure elation.

And then the vision broke and they were human again - tangled in torn sheets and slick with sweat. Fingernail scratches adorn Hannibal's chest and Sinric's arms. Both their lips split and wet with blood.

Sinric's eyes, still gold, look down into Hannibal's, laughing and hazy.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal holds his gaze as his hands slowly slide down Sinric's side.

[thewidewideworld]

There's a pleasant ache radiating through Sinric and he sighs warmly under Hanibal's strong hands. He gives a breathless laugh and leans in to kiss him softly, aware of their mutual maiming.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal kisses him back, then licks their mingled blood from his lips.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric gives a soft little keen and kisses back, opening his mouth to give Hannibal greater access.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal keeps kissing him, bloodied tongue licking the inside of Sinric's mouth.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric smiles into the kiss, drawing back to look into Hannibal's eyes. His own are full of energy and wonder. "You saw all of that too, didn't you?"

[cook_the_rude]

"Golden wings and black antlers," he nods. "Yes."

[thewidewideworld]

"I'm amazed the room isn't on fire." He carefully lifts himself off Hannibal to lay at his side. Rather than worn out, he seems bright and energetic. Renewed. "You are exceptional, Hannibal. Truly."

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal does not deny it. "And so are you," he says. "As I said before."

[thewidewideworld]

"I don't- no, I know none of my other lovers could share that with me. No-one else could endure it."

He traces the lines of scratches on Hannibal's chest. Most of them haven't broken the skin, just raised red welts. But where they cross or touch there are smeared beads of blood. "We who have no fear of the dangerous parts of each other."

[cook_the_rude]

"We who are equals in danger, and in the way others are wary of us," Hannibal nods.

[thewidewideworld]

That thought saddens Sinric and he kisses Hannibal just to stop the thought from festering.

He draws back to smile into Hannibal's eyes. "The night is beautiful again. And I would like to dance with you."

[cook_the_rude]

"So would I," Hannibal says. "And there are so many places to do so."

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric smiles and stroke Hannibal's cheek, kissing him again. Gleeful and playful now. "Then we should start by getting cleaned up again." He strokes a soft finger over on of the scratches. "We made rather a mess of each other. And I have a pretty new dress to wear."

[cook_the_rude]

"And I have 18th century finery to get back into," Hannibal says, getting up and holding out a hand to Sinric.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric wraps his hand around Hannibal's springing to his feet. He kisses Hannibal, dashing into the shower to wash off quickly. All the while sharing kisses with Hannibal.

Their detour into- whatever realm of being they shared has energised him greatly, leaving him bright and cheerful.

[cook_the_rude]

Hannibal is soon again dressed in rococo finery, smiling at Sinric as they are ready to go.

The room feels as if a sparkle of the magic still remains; whoever comes next might be in for a bit of a special treat.

[thewidewideworld]

Sinric wiggles into a cute little flapper outfit, gloves and all and takes Hannibal's hand. "Shall we dance, good lord?"

{ooc: head for fade? Unless Hannibal feels like hunting down the rude boy.}

[cook_the_rude]

"Dance we shall!"

And maybe hunt, later. And partake.-


[[OOC: Wrap is good, with this hint of it maybe happening...]]