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.]

Comments

[furnaceface]

Hannibal's experiences, his memories, both served to heighten Jono's own emotions, twisting and intermingling in a knot of passion and fury and predatory lust, and to draw his own mind away from the shock of suddenly re-living his own past traumas. In that moment, he was the hunter, seeking out his prey, working off his frustrations and his hunger in the heat of the moment, ridding the universe of one more ugly being.

In that moment, he was a man in love, discovering betrayal, learning that the trust that he'd dared to give had been given to somebody who didn't appreciate it, who didn't want the gift that had been freely offered.

In their shared space, he was furious, he was hurt, he was frightened. He was powerful. He was the one in charge. He was as close as any man could ever be to God.

And he was being swept away in that feeling. That overwhelming, satisfying feeling that whatever came to him, that was the fate he'd built for himself. And this, this moment right now, every single emotion twisting between them, it was his. It was theirs. They'd made this.

They were this.

[sharp_as_knives]

They were all of this. Hannibal was himself, and he was a teenager confused and hurting in a nightclub. He reached further and he was Glacia's general, headblind and uncertain and powerful. And further yet, half-buried, he was a confident and cunning soldier and a scared survivor at the end of the world.

He welcomed them all, every version and memory - breathed for the ones that needed it, offered his strength and his certainty, his fearlessness and caring. His own ferocity melted into Jono's, differing shades of joy and violence, and music threaded through all of them, sharp and soaring.

He wove a melody of their lives, his own single line with Jono's chords beneath it, all of them together moving toward a crescendo.

[furnaceface]

All of Jonothon's parts had never sung in harmony quite the way they were doing now. True enough, they were added to, enhanced by a chorus of Hannibal's own design, a symphony of blood and victory, of quiet dinners and deafening passion and every single bit of artistry the man had to offer.

What they were left with on the other end of it all was something not Jono, and not Hannibal, but a culmination of the two, proud and damaged, deadly and calculating and reckless and careful, deep breaths and fire, sharp, unreadable smiles and intelligent eyes that could see directly through a person right into their mind before ever resorting to just reaching in and taking what they wanted to see.

Jono licked his lips and smiled, drank in the way it made his face hurt like it was some kind of artistic victory, a mark of ownership, but also of trust, and acceptance.

He was a monster, and that was a point of pride. He was everything the rest of the world had come to respect and to despise, and he was perfect. He wouldn't have it any other way. What was there to regret? Every sour note, every missed chord was well behind them now, and every step they'd taken had brought them to this, to the music yet to come.

Jono was whole, and he was hungry, and there in their mind, he leaned forward, pressed his mouth almost viciously against Hannibal's, and kissed him, laid claim to him, in turn.

Damn right, there were teeth involved.

[sharp_as_knives]

Hannibal smiled into that kiss, returning it in kind. He was - they were - a god, and everything was beautiful, even the horrible parts. The fire all around them sparked every nerve and set them aflame without burning; their minds and flesh moved together, singing.

[furnaceface]

Jono rocked up against Hannibal, hands roaming now, fire engulfing the both of them and so help him, if he could just fold Hannibal up and tuck him neatly into his chest so that they could be entwined like this for always, he'd be tempted to try. But then there's so much he'd miss. Even if here in their mindspace, he could still appreciate Hannibal right down to his core, there were things that existed outside of their heads - the sharp sting from the knife he'd been toying with, for a start, and the sudden shock of feeling where for so long there had been none - that were worth remaining distinct and apart for, too.

This confidence, though... and the laser-like focus that Hannibal put into everything he did, the pride that he carried with him, so that there was no doubt that when he did something, he'd do it perfectly, they were intoxicating, and every time Jono took a taste of those things for himself, every time it wound a little more thoroughly into the them that they were weaving, he found himself falling a little closer to the edge, to something delicious and overwhelming.

They were so close, now, to the cliff's edge, the very same one they'd toppled over together before, when Hannibal was heartbroken and Jono was an offering, but this time instead of dragging one another over and holding on for dear life, Jonothon looked at the edge, and then raised an eyebrow as if asking, 'Why fall over? We were made to fly.'

[sharp_as_knives]

And Hannibal smiled back, and dug his fingers into the fresh wounds in Jono's side, curved his hand gently around Jono's waist, held on tight, and jumped.

[furnaceface]

This.

This was what it was like to be fearless. To be complete. To be untouchable and absolutely secure in that fact.

This. This was free-fall in reverse, like all of the pieces that had been scattered across the ground were gathering themselves up, piecing themselves together, and then returning to the shelf they'd been knocked from.

This was what it was to exist so close to a person that the two of them were almost indistinguishable from one another, and in doing so, feel that in no uncertain terms, they were more themselves than they'd ever been.

This was teeth and fingernails, this was skin against skin, this was fire and blood and cold sharp metal and promise, surviving the world's end and lasting long enough to see the sun come up again, to hold hope and joy hostage and to ransom them off in exchange for strength and acceptance and being more whole than anyone had been for longer than either realized.

If this wasn't love, Jonothon didn't know the meaning of the word. And right then he was going to take it and weave it in with the rest, watching the ground continue to fall away.

[sharp_as_knives]

Hannibal watched and enjoyed the artistry, and guided the weave, nudging it into place. He reveled in their flight, the way they matched each other every second and every ecstatic inch of travel. This was a journey of their own creation, exciting in its promise, rapturous in its execution, and thrilling in the uncertainty of its path.

It was wonderful, and perfect, and largely beyond words, but Hannibal managed yes.

[furnaceface]

Yes, Jonothon agreed, not daring to look down again. Not caring enough to try. They had all they needed here, they had themself, the two of them folded into one, riding this moment higher and higher. Eventually they'd crest, hit a peak and have to retreat from it again, and then they'd have to come back down.

If Jono had his way, coming to face that peak would involve breaking through and being left all the more exhilarated for it, instead of simply hitting the ceiling and being stuck on a plateau somewhere with nowhere to go but to drop again.

He gave a shameless, playful, reckless grin.

To break through, did Hannibal suppose they'd need a running start?

[sharp_as_knives]

Hannibal had no doubt they could do it with or without. But what was the point of doing anything halfway? He grinned back and grabbed to every memory of speed - riding their motorbikes through the English countryside, speeding through the sky when Jono had used his collar, dancing and twirling together - and twined them into the mix gleefully.

[furnaceface]

If there was one thing Jono appreciated about Hannibal's perfectionist thing, it was that half-measures weren't worth the effort, and beautiful things very much were. He wove as much of the enjoyment he could find from all of those events into the mix, held on tightly, and looked upwards with an expectant note of daring in his eyes.

There might as well have been no ceiling at all.

[sharp_as_knives]

The sky shattered around them, falling away into pure brightness that coalesced into stars and sparks, bursts of emotion and sensation through their shared mind. The pieces of memories flew away, leaving nothing but HannibalJonoPleasureEmotionForever.

[furnaceface]

Where before there had been a blurred line between them, now there was no line at all. Jonothon was Hannibal was one in the same, staring with wide, appreciative eyes at the stars around them. The world beyond their mindspace, out past the ceiling, was beautiful, was art in its own right, moving in slow motion around them with perfect clarity.

They were exactly what they were meant to be, and they were perfectly comfortable in that fact, even as the stars began to drift downward again somewhere at the end of forever, and borders and blurred edges began to creep back up around them.

[sharp_as_knives]

The edges became sharper, retreated, the stars resolving into white and yellow sparks of psychic fire and candle-flame and their glints in the night-dark windows and the liquid dark of blood.

Hannibal breathed deeply, Jono's body shifting with the movement, and they were separate but overlapping again, shared exhilaration and warmth and yes, love, there in the space around and inside them, but their minds largely their own once more.

[furnaceface]

Jono, mostly back outside of his own head now, leaned up to nuzzle his face against Hannibal's cheek, smearing blood from a sluggishly seeping wound across both their faces as he did so. Whatever frustration he'd been feeling before, now he was largely satisfied, clinging to the warm feelings as long as they were lingering between them for him to do so.

//I like that,// he decided, ever so eloquently. //Let's do that again.//

A beat.

//Maybe not right this instant.//

[sharp_as_knives]

Hannibal chuckled tiredly and kissed Jono's cheek, smearing the blood further. "Not right this instant, no." He rubbed a thumb over Jono's hip, then moved his legs just enough to shift to one side, turning them to take the pressure off of Jono without losing contact. "But that was lovely."

[furnaceface]

The fact that he was already laying down didn't mean Jono couldn't still sag a little, his body clearly taking advantage of the sudden reprieve of pressure bearing down on top of it. Enjoying it didn't actually make it much less exhausting, after all. They'd had a very good - and very taxing - go of it, there. Jono reached up to stroke his hand over Hannibal's shoulder, and managed, at least, to rest it there.

Also a win.

//It was,// he murmured, his voice still a calm, pleased sort of dazed. //Thank you.//

For playing along. For not making him beg too much. For making all of that into something pleasurable between them. For something. He was definitely thankful for something.

[sharp_as_knives]

"And thank you," Hannibal returned. He lifted his own hand to stroke Jono's hair, rubbing his scalp. "I couldn't have done it without you," he teased.

[furnaceface]

//Would've been interesting to see you try, though,// Jono mused. //If you ever do, I want to watch.//

It could be really hot. Or maybe Jono was just teasing, a sort of weird, floaty afterglow settling in around the edges of his consciousness. One of the two of those things.

[sharp_as_knives]

If Hannibal ever became telepathic on his own...many people should be afraid. But he probably could find a way to make it hot.

He leaned forward and kissed the top of Jono's head as he reached over him for the first aid kit. "You prepared well."

[furnaceface]

//Well... there were sharp things,// Jono murmured, closing his eyes and kind of bonelessly settling in right where he was. //There are some bottles of water as well, for you.//

Since only one of them could really work up a thirst, here.

[sharp_as_knives]

"Thank you." Hannibal got two of those as well, one to drink and one to help with washing up the blood. Then he set everything aside for a moment and just looked at Jono, his fingers drifting lightly over the cuts he'd made.

[furnaceface]

Jono shivered again, though this time it was a less visceral sort of movement, and more a kind of sedate, almost playful kind of movement. He looked up at Hannibal fondly.

//Hi.//

Now it was apparently time for Jono to be a cuddly dork.

[sharp_as_knives]

Hannibal chuckled. "Hello." He leaned down to kiss the join of two cuts, lapping up a bit of the blood there. "I'm tempted to paint more with this." Instead he opened the first-aid kit and got out some gauze, then wetted it down and started dabbing carefully at the wounds.

[furnaceface]

//Could if you wanted,// Jono murmured, though at this point it seemed like he was more likely to have a nap than he was to pay more attention to Hannibal's handiwork. //Not like I'm using it. Probably.//

Well, the stuff that was already outside of his body certainly wasn't doing him any good.

//That's nice too, though.//

Funny how this was basically the only situation where Jono would willingly just settle down and let somebody tend to his hurts without raising a fuss.