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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[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.

[sharp_as_knives]

Hannibal remembered that time, too. They hadn't even been together yet, Jono just an offering to him in the cause of bleeding off the anger at Will's betrayal. Now, the only thing he needed to bleed off was pollen-induced intensity. And Jono.

He knew Jono better these days, felt him better through familiarity with his flames. And Jono knew him - Hannibal had still been holding back in those early days, hiding himself. There was none of that anymore. Only the two of them, and the knife.

Jono would absolutely be thinking about this time every waking moment until he healed. And Hannibal would be admiring his handiwork whenever these lines were bared.

He cut another line, curling up from the first and heading back towards Jono's chest, flicking the knife over the edge into flame.

[furnaceface]

The instant the knife left his skin, sliced harmlessly through fire instead, Jono was writhing, adjusting to the sting of the cuts, to the satisfaction he could feel from Hannibal and just how much of him he knew, now, how raw and open they both were being bared to one another. Yes, Jono was laid out on the floor, naked and bleeding, but Hannibal was baring himself in a different way, trusting Jono with who he was in a way he hadn't, back then.

//Yours,// he found himself murmuring again, as the twitching in his muscles eased and he regained enough composure to seek Hannibal's gaze again. There was fondness in his eyes, and trust, and a sort of vulnerability that came from knowing that Hannibal understood that, whether he needed to be concerned about his body or not, the part of him that Jono trusted Hannibal with the most was that part of him that very few people ever had the opportunity to see.

The flames that were twisting around Hannibal, caressing him and embracing him, were very much a manifestation of that part of him.

//But you... you're mine, too.//

[sharp_as_knives]

There was still a part of Hannibal that rebelled at the idea of belonging to anyone; long years of habit and inclination were difficult to overcome. But belonging together, belonging with Jono, that was what this was. And that, he was perfectly fine with. More than fine, even.

He leaned down into and through the flames writhing around him to lap at the cuts he'd made. He let the blood drip and pressed his tongue on the cuts to free more, watching as it moved in smears and clearer lines, the flames licking out at it like another tongue.

[furnaceface]

A wordless burst of approval was as close to a gasp as Jono could manage when Hannibal's tongue moved over his wounds, but it said volumes on its own. It carried an image of Jono on the flat of his back, mouth agape and chest heaving, hands shaking as they reached to start tugging at Hannibal's clothing in turn. In actuality, only Jonothon's hands were mirroring that image, grabbing tightly at Hannibal's shirt and tugging at it in a silent plea. He wanted more skin, there. Wanted to be able to feel Hannibal pressing against him, warm flesh against flesh and fire, and the shirt and slacks were impeding that.

[sharp_as_knives]

Hannibal reached for Jono's hands, stretching them above his head and pinning them there. He smiled and bit Jono's cheek again, worrying at the edge of the mark he'd already left, tasting Jono's skin and flame. Then he left him there with a smile. "Don't move."

[furnaceface]

Well, then. Did Hannibal know that there was such a thing as big, sad, lustful eyes? Jono hadn't realized that they were something he could even pull off until pretty much that very moment, though he obediently kept his hands over his head, at least somewhat distracted in turn by the way his raised arms pulled at the cuts on his torso. Ah, okay, there were definitely worse positions to be left in, he had to admit.

//Not moving,// he reported, as though that was something that needed narrating. //If that's what you want.//

This was less a complaint, and more an affirmation that he was still on board with being submissive. While still pouting, playfully, as best as he was able without benefit of a mouth to pout with.

[sharp_as_knives]

Hannibal smiled and stood, setting the knife down low on Jono's belly. He unbuttoned his own shirt slowly, slipping out of it and setting it down. He watched the light of Jono's flames play over the walls and his skin as he undressed, watched how it glinted in the lines he'd left on Jono.

He finished undressing and stood there, watching for a moment more, enjoying the light-play and the anticipation, the scent of Jono's flames and the tang of his blood in his nostrils and on his tongue.

[furnaceface]

Jono was, in turn, drinking in his own view. The flames twisting around him remained red, creating a sort of wild, feral glow around the both of them, which served to deepen Jono's own desire for the man standing before him.

To be able to grab on to him and kiss him silly...

//Absolutely worth staying still for,// he purred. //I love watching you looking like that.//

Naked. Hungry. Fierce. Whatever completed that thought the best.

[sharp_as_knives]

All of the above?

Hannibal smiled down at him, definitely all three of those, before moving to pick up the knife again. He knelt over Jono, letting the flames lick up around him, and caressed his face.

[furnaceface]

Jono leaned his face into that caress, closing his eyes, pausing for a moment to revel in that one gentle gesture, as well. For as much as he liked the biting pain and the feral play that was going on between them, this... this was good, too. This reminded him that he was wanted in that other way, as more than just prey. That Hannibal valued him as something precious, to be treasured.

The scars, he could keep, could look at, could remember these pauses in between, where he was cherished every bit as much as he was... savoured, perhaps, was the word for it. Especially given the way Hannibal was very literally drinking him in.

//You're right,// he shared, softly. //Your hands are a treasure, too.//

[sharp_as_knives]

Hannibal grinned at that. "I do my best." He always did. Like right now, when he was leaning in further to slice Jono's side, crossing the earlier line and moving up what was left of Jono's chest. A narrow cut, digging the tip just under the skin at an angle, stinging and drawing as much blood as possible.

[furnaceface]

And here was Jono, unable to so much as whimper. Hell, his arms were still up above his head, and now he was determined to keep them there until Hannibal gave him permission to do otherwise. But there was that sting, that biting feeling in what was left of a chest that so often felt cold, if anything at all, and Jono was writhing again, little shifts of his weight and tilts of his head and clenchings of his fists as he processed that pain, embraced it, drank it all in.

Hannibal hadn't pinned his legs down yet. Jono was going to wrap one of them around one of Hannibal's. If it was twitching, like much of the rest of him, it was really just testimony to just how thorough a reaction Hannibal's attention was getting from him.

[sharp_as_knives]

Every move made the blood ooze in a different direction, and Hannibal watched it before reaching out with one hand to a small pool gathering in a dip of Jono's muscles. He trailed it out over the nearby skin, humming as he jotted musical notes up over Jono's ribs.

[furnaceface]

Jono glanced down at that, wondering what it was that Hannibal was painting across his skin.

He would have chuckled, if only he had been able.

//Composing, are you?//

[sharp_as_knives]

"Always." Hannibal wove the notes into one, adding vines and details to connect them. He flicked the knife across the nearest cut to get more blood as he needed it, letting the image grow up and around each slice. Each cut welled up and sprouted leaves and buds, all of them together growing into a forest of knife cuts and delicate finger painting.