Condonare (12/18) Warnings: murder, mentions of cannibalism, dubious morality, dubcon, language
anonymous
October 25 2011, 08:21:59 UTC
Hannibal hadn't. So Charles wondered what his flash of- not remorse, but- culpability? Recognition? was. "No," he said. "Of course not. Why would you think he did?"
Because Hannibal was who he was, and Charles was- not willful? Or because Erik automatically believed the worst of Hannibal?
Erik thought, so clearly that Charles could not avoid hearing, he cannot have touched you. It was more an emotion than a thought, rising only halfway out of the heart, not rooted enough in reason to have taken a language.
"He was a perfect gentleman," Charles said, suddenly unable to look at either of them.
--
He wants you, Hannibal thinks. It's very strange for him. But not for me. He was reading Charles' essay upside down, looking critical. Charles felt a rush of animal intelligence that turned around, suddenly, into a scientific one- except with Hannibal, there was no difference. Hannibal was an animal of science. Hannibal was staring at him right now, reading Charles' thoughts without telepathy.
He wants you, Hannibal said again.
"Fine, yes, he does." Charles glared at him for two seconds before dropping his eyes. Glaring at Hannibal was difficult. That edge of violence was always present. He thought that in a wolf pack, he would have gotten to eat his leftovers. "What do you want me to do about it?"
Hannibal shrugged, snagged Charles' pen, and underlined a citation mistake in his third paragraph.
That was how, later that night-
That was not how. Hannibal had nothing to do with it. It happened quite naturally, by itself, when Erik (who did not know how to ask) reached out and ran a thumb along the crease of Charles' collar with his lashes dropped, and Charles chose to lean forward and kiss the awkward-graceful mouth that curved in astonishment under his. But of course Hannibal had everything to do with it. Charles kissed him silly (Erik's mind a muddle of color and electricity) and then told him to stay still and not exert himself as he slid his mouth down over Erik's hard body, nipples and furred groin and firm, leaking prick. There was no way Hannibal missed the sound Erik made, a short, sharp cry of terrified pleasure.
Erik was twenty three, and had killed more people than he had fucked.
"Don't buck," Charles said. "Right? If you jar your shoulder, I'm going to stop." Running his thumb down the line of dribbled precum, using the moisture to fleck Erik's perineum and rub it in.
"Oh," Erik said hoarsely. "Yes."
And he carefully did not move at all, although Charles saw the neck muscles that ran dangerously close to the wounded area tense as Erik fought not to jerk. Charles liked Erik's cock- liked the circumcision scar, the leaking slit, the heavy hotness of it on his palm and mouth. He liked the way licking it made Erik melt and tense in cycles. He liked the gorgeous, desperate noises that Erik made, the bright, pained wonderment of his mind.
Neither of them remembered, later, which language Erik used when he said I'm going to-. Charles drew off and lipped at the slit once before Erik came over his face, his jaw and nose and his left cheek. Erik drew a finger through the streaked seed dumbly when they were done, as if he couldn't believe whose cum it was.
"Your shoulder," Charles said.
"Never serious," Erik said, the great liar, and after Charles wiped his face, kissed him like he wasn't quite sure how it was done. How Charles liked it. There was none of Hannibal's coiled confidence here.
Charles caught a thread of never- but he's a man- still good- I don't know- not good- and thought about talking about it, but Erik gave him an angry, slitted look. There was a rush of shame, of a furious stay out of my head, and Charles shut his mouth against the reassurances he could give and settled for rubbing circled on Erik's hip and belly. You don't have to be ashamed of being ashamed, he almost said, but Erik was torn enough as it was.
Because Hannibal was who he was, and Charles was- not willful? Or because Erik automatically believed the worst of Hannibal?
Erik thought, so clearly that Charles could not avoid hearing, he cannot have touched you. It was more an emotion than a thought, rising only halfway out of the heart, not rooted enough in reason to have taken a language.
"He was a perfect gentleman," Charles said, suddenly unable to look at either of them.
--
He wants you, Hannibal thinks. It's very strange for him. But not for me. He was reading Charles' essay upside down, looking critical. Charles felt a rush of animal intelligence that turned around, suddenly, into a scientific one- except with Hannibal, there was no difference. Hannibal was an animal of science. Hannibal was staring at him right now, reading Charles' thoughts without telepathy.
He wants you, Hannibal said again.
"Fine, yes, he does." Charles glared at him for two seconds before dropping his eyes. Glaring at Hannibal was difficult. That edge of violence was always present. He thought that in a wolf pack, he would have gotten to eat his leftovers. "What do you want me to do about it?"
Hannibal shrugged, snagged Charles' pen, and underlined a citation mistake in his third paragraph.
That was how, later that night-
That was not how. Hannibal had nothing to do with it. It happened quite naturally, by itself, when Erik (who did not know how to ask) reached out and ran a thumb along the crease of Charles' collar with his lashes dropped, and Charles chose to lean forward and kiss the awkward-graceful mouth that curved in astonishment under his. But of course Hannibal had everything to do with it. Charles kissed him silly (Erik's mind a muddle of color and electricity) and then told him to stay still and not exert himself as he slid his mouth down over Erik's hard body, nipples and furred groin and firm, leaking prick. There was no way Hannibal missed the sound Erik made, a short, sharp cry of terrified pleasure.
Erik was twenty three, and had killed more people than he had fucked.
"Don't buck," Charles said. "Right? If you jar your shoulder, I'm going to stop." Running his thumb down the line of dribbled precum, using the moisture to fleck Erik's perineum and rub it in.
"Oh," Erik said hoarsely. "Yes."
And he carefully did not move at all, although Charles saw the neck muscles that ran dangerously close to the wounded area tense as Erik fought not to jerk. Charles liked Erik's cock- liked the circumcision scar, the leaking slit, the heavy hotness of it on his palm and mouth. He liked the way licking it made Erik melt and tense in cycles. He liked the gorgeous, desperate noises that Erik made, the bright, pained wonderment of his mind.
Neither of them remembered, later, which language Erik used when he said I'm going to-. Charles drew off and lipped at the slit once before Erik came over his face, his jaw and nose and his left cheek. Erik drew a finger through the streaked seed dumbly when they were done, as if he couldn't believe whose cum it was.
"Your shoulder," Charles said.
"Never serious," Erik said, the great liar, and after Charles wiped his face, kissed him like he wasn't quite sure how it was done. How Charles liked it. There was none of Hannibal's coiled confidence here.
Charles caught a thread of never- but he's a man- still good- I don't know- not good- and thought about talking about it, but Erik gave him an angry, slitted look. There was a rush of shame, of a furious stay out of my head, and Charles shut his mouth against the reassurances he could give and settled for rubbing circled on Erik's hip and belly. You don't have to be ashamed of being ashamed, he almost said, but Erik was torn enough as it was.
--
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