Hannibal's house (not that Jono cares), Saturday evening

[sharp_as_knives]

These weeks on the island did not, for the most part, affect Hannibal the same as everybody else; sex was an enjoyable pastime, but one he could largely forego in the face of other...enjoyments. Which didn't mean he hadn't been somewhat restless and wanting this week. He'd sharpened his knives, filled his pantry, and been very artistic in doing so. But even with a multiverse of rude people to choose from, it seemed wasteful to do too much of that.


[OOC: For the one mentioned, specifics NFB. Warnings for blood, sex, and...just...general Jono and Hannibalness.]

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[furnaceface]

Now there was a new sensation for Jonothon. A good amount of his body was numb, cold, thanks to the damage that had been done to it when he'd blown half of himself straight to hell, but there were always those moments when he felt something - felt something! - after going so long with no sensation at all. And what he was feeling now, teeth on his cheek, a tongue teasing the inside of his upper jaw, was almost too much to process, regardless of the damage to his nerves.

There was intent for him to drink in. There was Hannibal's hunger, there was every little suggestion that his psionic senses could pick up. And what he was feeling, he wanted.

Jono writhed in Hannibal's arms at that bite, projected a knot of lust and appreciation and a flicker of morbid fascination at what Hannibal had just done. Behind the fire was a no-man's land for most, even Jono himself spent as little time as was possible with his hands behind that flame-obscured void where his face had once been.

//Oh, god,// he said, voice an impressive approximation to a desperate gasp. //That. That. Please, please, touch me, please, take me. I'm yours, Hannibal. Inside and out, I'm yours.//

Hannibal always managed to make being touched seem new again. Jono couldn't deny, now, that he was desperate for that again.

[sharp_as_knives]

Mine. Just a thought rather than said out loud, but fierce and feral and clear. Hannibal bit down again, biting and sucking and licking at the raw edge of Jono's skin. His hands moved, too, one to skim through the faint resistance of Jono's flames, pushing and pulling at them, and the other to dig into his side, nails scoring lines over Jono's hip.

[furnaceface]

Jono sent back a wave of agreement when he heard that thought, of confirmation, twisting through his flames on the link that had settled between them. He tilted his head, giving Hannibal easier access to any part of him he might want, while his hips writhed a little under those fingernails.

His own hands were still free, which meant he was going to use them, fingers reaching up to grab a handful of Hannibal's hair, very much encouraging him to keep on doing what he was doing with his mouth. If Jonothon ended the night with some interesting teeth-marks on his face, all the better. Not many people would notice if he wrapped his bandages just a tiny bit higher between here and wherever the trip was this spring break.

Of course, that thought was the farthest from his mind right then. Then, the thought that came most immediately to mind was, more.

[sharp_as_knives]

Hannibal pulled back enough to meet Jono's eyes, his expression still fierce. "How much more?"

He still wanted red.

[furnaceface]

Jono's own gaze flicked up to meet Hannibal's, and he held it for a moment, want so clear in his expression that he couldn't have looked hungrier if he'd been able to lick his lips at the thought.

//How much do you want to take?//

Jono wasn't afraid of you, Hannibal. That ferocity was very much what he'd been hoping for, tonight.

[sharp_as_knives]

Jono wasn't the only one that relished the chance to be himself without being feared. Hannibal enjoyed the fear, too, but having someone strong enough and deadly enough not to fear him - that was an experience.

"Enough to paint the room to match your fire." Hannibal's voice was a near-growl as he pictured what he wanted: a play of firelight over liquid, red on red, Jono in the middle of it, splayed out just for him.

[furnaceface]

Jonothon shuddered, knotted his fingers in Hannibal's hair a little more tightly, and then leaned in to nuzzle his face into the crook of Hannibal's neck. God, the man knew how to get a reaction out of him, didn't he? And Jono, who craved sensation and touch and who soaked in pain and pleasure in equal measures, couldn't say the image didn't appeal to him.

//A masterpiece,// he murmured. He didn't need a head to survive, what was a little blood? And it would lead to the satisfaction they were both craving. //Show me. Please, take all the red you need.//

[sharp_as_knives]

Hannibal glanced to the side where he could see the assortment of knives set out and chose a small, curved paring knife. He trailed it lightly over the skin just under Jono's shirt and smirked. "Did you intend to go clothes-shopping after tonight?"

[furnaceface]

Jono raised a challenging eyebrow to match Hannibal's smirk.

//I do own more than this one outfit, you know.//

Unless Hannibal was holding the BDSM hostage in exchange for another shopping trip. In which case, Jono probably wouldn't take much persuading.

[sharp_as_knives]

"Fewer button-ups, though," Hannibal answered. "Especially in red." He raised an eyebrow. "You can remove it, or I can." He tugged at one of the buttons with the knife.

[furnaceface]

Really, the answer here was practically a no-brainer, wasn't it? Jono's raised eyebrow was now paired with a smirk, settling in around the corners of his eyes.

//Please, don't let me stop you.//

Red button-ups were rare in his closet, perhaps, but overall fairly easy to replace.

[sharp_as_knives]

And Hannibal never minded clothes shopping. Or taking Jono to do it. The knife hooked under the edge of the shirt, slicing through the threads that held each button on. Then again under the edge of one cuff, pulling Jono's hand up. Hannibal's free hand curved around it, lacing their fingers and holding it steady as he cut through the fabric, slicing the sleeve in two.

[furnaceface]

Hannibal was definitely a master of building anticipation, wasn't he? Jono watched the knife at work hungrily, the flames twisting around them carrying along his appreciation of the deftness with which Hannibal used it. If the shirt was hanging in shreds around him before long, all the better.

It was like a promise. Jonothon squeezed Hannibal's hand a little, silently voicing his approval.

[sharp_as_knives]

Hannibal kissed Jono's hand and let it go in favor of the other, treating it the same way. The shirt fell away, leaving pale bare skin to frame the flames in contrast. He pushed Jono back to lie on the blankets, enjoying the sight and the anticipation for a moment. The knife wouldn't cut easily through denim, but it would, in Hannibal's hands, flick the button free of its hole and pull the zipper slowly down.

[furnaceface]

Nobody could tell Jonothon that he wasn't a lucky man, right then. Nobody. Hell, Hannibal could have him at knifepoint, and--

Well, he did. And Jono really wasn't complaining about it.

//You've made pulling a zipper down into a bloody art form,// Jono purred, looking down at Hannibal as he made himself comfortable. This was probably his favourite view, right here. Hannibal in his element, the way he looked at Jono hungrily, with no hint of uncertainty in his eyes. And why should Hannibal be uncertain? There were teeth marks on Jonothon's face that stood as testament to the fact that he was very much not afraid of fire, after all. //I'm impressed.//

There was a challenge in that, somewhere. Jono was impressed, absolutely.

What else can you do?

[sharp_as_knives]

"Everything is art if you do it correctly." Hannibal slid Jono's jeans off and set them aside, tracing a line back up one leg with the knife blade. He debated cutting off the black silk boxer-briefs, but having finally gotten Jono to wear them in the first place…

Well, he could always buy more.

"You'll want to hold still for this."

[furnaceface]

Funny how the moment he was told to stay still, it was that much more difficult for Jonothon to do so. There was a shiver just waiting on the edges, a slight quiver of anticipation that remained, fortunately, in his hands and made itself so much more apparent in the hungry look in his eyes. He wanted to stay still. He also wanted to reach forward and grab Hannibal and pull him down toward him and wrap himself around him and devour him, or be devoured, to lose himself in him or to have Hannibal lose himself in whatever way he so desired.

He held still. He held still, and he watched, and if he had been able, he would have bit his lip, or exhaled a shaky, expectant breath.

//That, I can do.//

But so help him, Hannibal, it wasn't easy.

[sharp_as_knives]

"Glad to hear it." The knife hooked into the fabric, cutting a small hole, and with a twist of his wrist, Hannibal widened it. He pulled up and sliced them free, the tip of the knife digging into the tender skin to one side of Jono's cock, drawing a bead of blood that shone dark against his skin as he was laid bare.

[furnaceface]

And now wasn't Jono glad he'd managed to stay still? He closed his eyes, shut them tight and balled his hands into fists, toes curling a little with the effort it took to not move at that. But lord, it was a challenge, and to make up for his body not being able to react quite the way he would have wanted (not just because of the location of that knife), Jono sent Hannibal a wave of emotion, like a telepathic shudder in its own right, red and hot and drinking in that bite of pain and hanging on for dear life.

This was what they'd both asked for, what they'd both been craving, Jono surrendering himself to Hannibal's whims, two predators embracing one another with blood and trust and need.

Hannibal had made it very clear very immediately with that one bead of blood that he was very serious when he said he wanted to paint the room in red.

[sharp_as_knives]

Very, very serious. And very, very red. Hannibal hummed in satisfaction at that wave and lay the flat of the knife against Jono's thigh as he leaned down to suck up that one drop.

[furnaceface]

And there, that was when Jono let himself shiver, the feel of Hannibal's mouth and the cold metal of the knife and that promise all twisting around in his head, mixing together to drive him bloody mad.

Was he reaching his hand to grab that handful of Hannibal's hair that he was so fond of, again? Absolutely, he was.

[sharp_as_knives]

And in turn, Hannibal bit down, tearing that pinprick hole wider, letting the blood coat his lips and drip out over Jono's pale skin. Then he held him down with his free hand and the warning of the knife, watching.

[furnaceface]

There was a bit of a tremble in Jono's hands, now. He was sure Hannibal could feel it in the hand in his hair, could see it in his thighs, in the way his flames spat sparks up around them. He was taking the pain of it all, processing it, holding on to it for dear life, and drawing more need from it than he'd had before. But then there was the knife, and there was Hannibal's hand, and he couldn't just sit up and beg if he'd wanted to.

And did Jonothon ever want to.

//Every time I think I can't be more enamored with your mouth,// he murmured, eyes watching him hungrily, //you prove me dead wrong, you know that?//

[sharp_as_knives]

"Only one of my many fine features," Hannibal answered. "I'm also very good with my hands."

The knife moved, slicing up to carve a shallow arc from the top of his thigh up over his hip.

[furnaceface]

A very good place to cut, if Hannibal's aim was to have Jono thinking about this moment every time he stood up or walked for the next several days. Jono suspected he was going to find plenty of other places to leave that same reminder before the night was through.

He tilted his head back this time, eyes closed, flames snaking out and around Hannibal's hands, sharing the feeling of his excitement, of his approval, of his hunger for more as more red welled up along the trail left by the blade.

He remembered, briefly, the first time Hannibal had done this, the way he'd played in the blood across his back like some depraved Picasso, creating stark contrast between skin and blood and black leather. And now, well over a year later, Hannibal knew what made Jono tick, knew how to drive him mad with hands and words alone, had so much more in his arsenal than he had before.

He made surrender a pleasure. Jono was never really helpless unless he chose to be, his mutation made certain of that, but even if he was, here, he'd feel safe.

Here he was with his own.