Italian Western
St. John glared down the barrel of a tarnished old semi-automatic. "That's my gun."
The guy holding the gun and barring entry to the apartment was a skinny little punk in faded blue jeans and a brand new silk shirt that hung too loosely off his shoulders. It was a new shirt. His almond-brown eyes were narrowed into furious little slits.
St. John scowled, voice low and lethal. "And that's my shirt."
He pushed forward but before he could get one foot through the door, the kid shoved him hard and slammed the door shut. His mouth dropped open as he heard deadbolt after deadbolt sliding into place. He was exhausted and frustrated, and hurting. All he'd been thinking about for the past 24 hours was getting home alive, taking a shower, sleeping and making sure he was still safe--this ungrateful idiot who had the nerve to lock him out of his own home.
His shoulders slumped he sighed. “ I brought food” he called out in a resigned voice. He then heard the sound of the locks quickly being opened, the sliding sound strangely loud. The door was yanked opened and the defiant brat rapidly snatched the bag and went inside the house leaving the door open behind him. He took that for permission to enter his own apartment he noticed grudgingly as he dragged himself in. He closed the door, making sure to put back all the deadbolts. He then spotted his favorite chair and crashed.
He looked over to see where his charge had gone. Not surprisingly, he was sitting at the table gobbling down the food he had brought, the automatic resting at a close proximity in case they might need it. Which reminded him... St. John proceeded to unbutton his coat, and slowly started to set down his load on the table next to him. A Tech-9, Mac-11, an M950 and a personal favorite of his, a 1970 HK VP70Z. He smiled, classics were the best after all. Finally he took out all the ammunition he had, including several gas bombs he carried with him.
“So, where did you go off to this time?” came the aggravated voice of his permanent guest from above his head. “Cyrus” he replied in the same tone, “ I've told you not to walk up on me like that. If I hadn't known we were alone, you would have been on the floor with my knee choking the breath out of that tiny neck of yours”. Cyrus just glared at him, not caring about the warning he was given. “ You know I'm not going to tell you” St. John told him with finality.
At that moment, Cyrus lost it. He grabbed the first thing he saw close at hand and threw it at him. St. John managed to block the object with his arm and next thing he knew he had been yanked off the couch and was on the floor with an angry Cyrus on top of him. A rain of fists and punches fell upon him and he could barely protect himself. To think that a trained professional like him, was being overtaken by a brat ten years younger than him. He knew he was mad but he hadn't imagined to what extent.
In the meantime, Cyrus was yelling curses and profanities nonstop. He finally made sense of one sentence. “Tell me St.John!, what was so fucking important, that you left me for three whole days, with only three cans of tuna, a can of corn, and stale bread!? You fucking bastard!” he yelled as he threw another punch. “You knew I could not leave the house!” Cyrus yelled as he used his weight to elbow him.
St.John, tired of the abuse, grabbed Cyrus's arms and expertly pinned him down on the floor where he could look straight at his face. Cyrus continued to struggle even though he knew it was useless. He still managed to put in a kick as mad as he was. “ That's what this is all about?!” St.John asked. “Food?” he exclaimed, awe in his voice.
“Yes, food you idiot!” he exclaimed furiously. “ I'm a growing boy! I need more than just canned food to survive! Try living with just that for three days!” he spat. A dark look shadowed St.John's face, but he quickly shook it off. “ You're just a spoiled brat, that's what you are” he said this as he ruffled the boy's hair with a smile on his face. Cyrus went silent as he admired the placid smile of the man he now lived with. St. John did not failed to notice this and he slowly bent down to place a light kiss on the boys lip. “You missed me?” he whispered. “Yeah” the boy replied with a sigh, his half lidded eyes inviting, all anger forgotten. St. John did not need any more encouragement than that as he deepened the kiss and let go of Cyrus hands to search freely.
For a sixteen year old boy, the boy was scrawny but he was wild and he loved it. The heat intensified. St. John began to unbutton his silken shirt which was on the boy revealing white skin with a touch of summer. He wanted to taste that skin and he did as he dipped his head and passed his tongue over the one pectoral. “John” Cyrus called with a light groan. He could feel the heat gathering in his groin and he started to get rid of his own garments. Cyrus watched as St. John took off his vest, and after unbuttoning his shirt and taking off his undershirt revealed well-toned muscles under tanned dark skin. He did not get to admire this much longer, as St. John captured one nipple with his mouth and he gasped.
St. John then proceeded to undo the one button to his lovers pants and swiftly pulled them away, both pants and briefs. As he did so, he continued to taste young Cyrus skin, nipping here and there. Pausing at the dip of his belly and playing a bit with his lover's cute bellybutton. “Stop that” Cyrus protested but stopped when St. John started to grope his member which had been grieving attention. St. John could tell Cyrus was nearing completion and he began to prepare the boy for him. Cyrus did not protest as St. John pulled him upward and on top of him. He knew what to do as he slowly went down on St. John. Up, and down, the friction blinding him with ecstasy. St. John bucked his hips and Cyrus cried out as the pleasure shook him.
“I'm sorry” whispered St. John to Cyrus after their lovemaking. “ I should have been more thoughtful” he admitted. “ I get it. You're just not used to living with someone else. I wish Daddy wasn't so dependent on you” the boy whispered. “ That's cause I'm your Daddy's best hit men” grinned St.John. “He knows he can trust me”. “Says the guy who just fucked his son” pointed Cyrus skeptically. “I didn't say I was perfect, just the best” smiled St.John.