The thing is, he doesn’t, and Antonio fights still. Thank God, he is not as stupid as some may think. One thing during war he’s learned: never go anywhere without, at least, a dagger. So, with one free hand, he takes it out, slowly, and begins whispering back to Francis, in the most lovely voice he can muster up. Saying things in his native tongue that sound like a sweet sea breeze to a person he used to know, just until the dagger is fully out and he has the opening, what a miracle. He pushes up the blade into Francis’s side, or at least tries. He’s gotten better since when they were kids. He steps out of Antonio’s reach and lets him fall to the ground with an unnatural sort of thump and crack. And then, he’s on top of him, wrestling for the blade—scratching, kicking, punching, and swearing—until Francis grips it, wrenching it free from Antonio’s callused hands. How charming those hands were, really. And then he takes the dagger, and stabs it, hard through muscle, into Antonio’s arm and he tries not to scream. “You are such a two-faced little snake.”
“Damn you.”
“Well, Antonio, dear, I wouldn’t want to kill you now, would I? No. There’s so much more to do.” He let’s his arm slack and eyes slant a little, and doesn’t risk pulling the blade out. Antonio has learned you just lose more blood that way. “I see, you do not want to play today. Fine then.”
Francis isn’t kidding. He let’s his fingers fidget with the fringes of Antonio’s breeches, slips a finger down onto a slim waist then pulls down. Plying hard, he loosens up and removes at the same time. There is no reaction on Antonio’s part; he just sits there, kicks every once in a while. “And before you decide to finally take that knife out, I’ll do it for you.” He rips out the blade, lets the blood flow, thankfully there is a less chance of dying if stabbed in the arm. But, then again, he is still bleeding, and yelps in how fast it came out.
“Get the hell off.”
“Not ready, I see.” With careful, but firm fingers he grips. Pumping and rolling until Antonio is at least half hard. Flips, him over, despite more yelling and glances thrown like knives and attempts at grabbing the dagger lying only a few feet away. Together, they were never for long attempts at foreplay, or teasing, not even in earlier days. But, it had never hurt like this. All Francis had done was run his hand a few times over his own erection to work himself up, and that’s it. Stretching and burning from inside, and bruise-worthy pressure being applied to his waist and knees hurt from being the ground too long. Twisting his messages, unmerciful thrusts with absolutely no lubrication—hell, not even spit—and butterfly kisses of fingers trailing his chest, and stomach. Francis had cold fingers. “I said, get the hell off.” He says it defiantly, even though his world seems to be centered between his legs.
“I think you mean ‘get the hell out,’” and he chuckles softly and there are still some complaints, a “no” stuck between some other words, here and there, you know.
“Do you think I—” Francis pushes him self in, further and angles differently. “fuck.”
Pulls his cock out fast, making Antonio gasp, hard and quite loud in actuality, and flips him onto his back and enters again just as harshly. “Let me be nice and take the strain off your one good arm.” Francis smiles, soft like a baby’s and keeps angling so damn perfectly. But to his surprise, when he leans over, pushing Antonio’s hips forward and crushes their lips together, the other lips are open and he is met by hands holding them close, if not closer. Then, in small gestures, he nips and sucks on tanner skin, drawing even more blood. Francis likes the feel of the nails digging hard into his back, even if it hurts a little, and the breathing and trembling hand that play against his skin. They continue to move, slick little twists of hips and throaty sort of groans and vibrations that sound like hums.
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it was never really about Portugal. -- o4
(Anonymous) 2009-03-28 08:22 pm (UTC)(link)“Damn you.”
“Well, Antonio, dear, I wouldn’t want to kill you now, would I? No. There’s so much more to do.” He let’s his arm slack and eyes slant a little, and doesn’t risk pulling the blade out. Antonio has learned you just lose more blood that way. “I see, you do not want to play today. Fine then.”
Francis isn’t kidding. He let’s his fingers fidget with the fringes of Antonio’s breeches, slips a finger down onto a slim waist then pulls down. Plying hard, he loosens up and removes at the same time. There is no reaction on Antonio’s part; he just sits there, kicks every once in a while. “And before you decide to finally take that knife out, I’ll do it for you.” He rips out the blade, lets the blood flow, thankfully there is a less chance of dying if stabbed in the arm. But, then again, he is still bleeding, and yelps in how fast it came out.
“Get the hell off.”
“Not ready, I see.” With careful, but firm fingers he grips. Pumping and rolling until Antonio is at least half hard. Flips, him over, despite more yelling and glances thrown like knives and attempts at grabbing the dagger lying only a few feet away. Together, they were never for long attempts at foreplay, or teasing, not even in earlier days. But, it had never hurt like this. All Francis had done was run his hand a few times over his own erection to work himself up, and that’s it. Stretching and burning from inside, and bruise-worthy pressure being applied to his waist and knees hurt from being the ground too long. Twisting his messages, unmerciful thrusts with absolutely no lubrication—hell, not even spit—and butterfly kisses of fingers trailing his chest, and stomach. Francis had cold fingers. “I said, get the hell off.” He says it defiantly, even though his world seems to be centered between his legs.
“I think you mean ‘get the hell out,’” and he chuckles softly and there are still some complaints, a “no” stuck between some other words, here and there, you know.
“Do you think I—” Francis pushes him self in, further and angles differently. “fuck.”
Pulls his cock out fast, making Antonio gasp, hard and quite loud in actuality, and flips him onto his back and enters again just as harshly. “Let me be nice and take the strain off your one good arm.” Francis smiles, soft like a baby’s and keeps angling so damn perfectly. But to his surprise, when he leans over, pushing Antonio’s hips forward and crushes their lips together, the other lips are open and he is met by hands holding them close, if not closer. Then, in small gestures, he nips and sucks on tanner skin, drawing even more blood. Francis likes the feel of the nails digging hard into his back, even if it hurts a little, and the breathing and trembling hand that play against his skin. They continue to move, slick little twists of hips and throaty sort of groans and vibrations that sound like hums.