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]

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.