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

[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.