Cantarella
La lluvia frìa;
He smirks at the nickname; he, the cold rain.
Ven conmigo a concer los secretos del placer.
He enters the place of secret pleasures; of course, smiling, the master bedroom, where more than one offense had been committed.
El sol caliente.
The smirks widens into a calm smile at the man before him; the hot sun.
"You wanted to see me, love?"
The sun flinches only slightly at the not quite endearing phrase; he straightens himself and smiles warmly.
"Only a bit. When will I be free?"
"When I negotiate it."
The annoyance at being asked this - dozens of times, he counts - works its way into his voice and he has to pause to regain control. The smile returns, the sultry voice rumbles from the rain again, and he motions to the wine glass.
"There's no need for this to be all about business; have a glass, love."
Carefully, so carefully, Antonio grips the stem of the copita. His fingers graze the decoration - a beautiful, dark red opaque twist - and the smiles fades only slightly. A prompt from the guest turned host bids him to drink. He bites his lip (when did this situation get so switched, he wondered, when he had been the one to ask his captor to come here?) and sips the drink; warmth floods him.
Sherry, he thinks happily.
Oloroso, he thinks drowsily.
Arthur produces a tight smile as Antonio slumps to the floor; the wine spills and cascades out onto the floor, seeping into the wood and the clothing of the fallen man. Wryly, the thought of symbolised blood passes through quickly and he heaves the other along to the bed. The body's laid with slow precision into the sheets; wrapped delicately up in them. He sits on the bed, and watches the sleeping body.
Half an hour passes before he reaches over and tugs away the string, loosening the shirt's collar. Heat bubbles in him at the exposure of that rich skin. Not a movement is made from the body, and he longs to see the fierce determination and biting remarks of his prisoner again. Straddling the man, he leans down and plants kisses from his ear to his chest, working quickly at the shirt.
Arthur pauses at the heart, letting his lips feel the beat. Or, rather, the lack of one; he bites, hard into the skin and tears it, frustration coursing in his veins. He falls to the side and looks at the ceiling; the memory of Antonio's delighted grin at finding his captor watching him in the garden hits him harder than a slap to the face and he covers his eyes, brimming to tears. He wonders, briefly, if he's killed that smile; lost forever to the world, would it haunt him till his own death? His fingers grip the bottle of poison in his shirt tightly, and he pulls it out and stares at it in the light.
He tucks it away with a final sigh and lets the tears flow freely. Lips pursed, Arthur finds this offense the only regrettable one. If only for the fact he'd be the one tortured by the smile and the loss, and no one else - or so he informed himself kindly. Hours pass slowly, lying there; every glance at the clock tells him an hour's passed, until it chimes midnight. He's calmed down; nearly settled into sleep.
A disturbance beside him makes his eyes snap open, but he's too late to stop the hands pinning him to the bed. Antonio smiles as he straddles his captor; he leans down and whispers, breath hot and slightly croaky; the smile's crooked, in that endearing way, with a hint of malice.
"Capture me."
-
Notes;
// jerez;; sherry. sherry made in Jerez and originating from Jerez de la Frontera, Spain
// cantarella;; arsenic-based poison that made the victim sleep for four hours, with no pulse so they appeared to be dead. used by the Pope Alexander VI, Rodrio Borgia.
// sherry glasses;; copita. in the 18th century, glassmakers would draw spiral patterns in the stem as they formed the glass. using air bubbles was called an airtwist; threads, white or coloured, was opaque twist.
//olosoro;; the darkest and richest type of sherry, with a very high alcohol content
Based (loosely?) off of Cantarella, a video. I claim no ownership to it.
He smirks at the nickname; he, the cold rain.
Ven conmigo a concer los secretos del placer.
He enters the place of secret pleasures; of course, smiling, the master bedroom, where more than one offense had been committed.
El sol caliente.
The smirks widens into a calm smile at the man before him; the hot sun.
"You wanted to see me, love?"
The sun flinches only slightly at the not quite endearing phrase; he straightens himself and smiles warmly.
"Only a bit. When will I be free?"
"When I negotiate it."
The annoyance at being asked this - dozens of times, he counts - works its way into his voice and he has to pause to regain control. The smile returns, the sultry voice rumbles from the rain again, and he motions to the wine glass.
"There's no need for this to be all about business; have a glass, love."
Carefully, so carefully, Antonio grips the stem of the copita. His fingers graze the decoration - a beautiful, dark red opaque twist - and the smiles fades only slightly. A prompt from the guest turned host bids him to drink. He bites his lip (when did this situation get so switched, he wondered, when he had been the one to ask his captor to come here?) and sips the drink; warmth floods him.
Sherry, he thinks happily.
Oloroso, he thinks drowsily.
Arthur produces a tight smile as Antonio slumps to the floor; the wine spills and cascades out onto the floor, seeping into the wood and the clothing of the fallen man. Wryly, the thought of symbolised blood passes through quickly and he heaves the other along to the bed. The body's laid with slow precision into the sheets; wrapped delicately up in them. He sits on the bed, and watches the sleeping body.
Half an hour passes before he reaches over and tugs away the string, loosening the shirt's collar. Heat bubbles in him at the exposure of that rich skin. Not a movement is made from the body, and he longs to see the fierce determination and biting remarks of his prisoner again. Straddling the man, he leans down and plants kisses from his ear to his chest, working quickly at the shirt.
Arthur pauses at the heart, letting his lips feel the beat. Or, rather, the lack of one; he bites, hard into the skin and tears it, frustration coursing in his veins. He falls to the side and looks at the ceiling; the memory of Antonio's delighted grin at finding his captor watching him in the garden hits him harder than a slap to the face and he covers his eyes, brimming to tears. He wonders, briefly, if he's killed that smile; lost forever to the world, would it haunt him till his own death? His fingers grip the bottle of poison in his shirt tightly, and he pulls it out and stares at it in the light.
He tucks it away with a final sigh and lets the tears flow freely. Lips pursed, Arthur finds this offense the only regrettable one. If only for the fact he'd be the one tortured by the smile and the loss, and no one else - or so he informed himself kindly. Hours pass slowly, lying there; every glance at the clock tells him an hour's passed, until it chimes midnight. He's calmed down; nearly settled into sleep.
A disturbance beside him makes his eyes snap open, but he's too late to stop the hands pinning him to the bed. Antonio smiles as he straddles his captor; he leans down and whispers, breath hot and slightly croaky; the smile's crooked, in that endearing way, with a hint of malice.
"Capture me."
-
Notes;
// jerez;; sherry. sherry made in Jerez and originating from Jerez de la Frontera, Spain
// cantarella;; arsenic-based poison that made the victim sleep for four hours, with no pulse so they appeared to be dead. used by the Pope Alexander VI, Rodrio Borgia.
// sherry glasses;; copita. in the 18th century, glassmakers would draw spiral patterns in the stem as they formed the glass. using air bubbles was called an airtwist; threads, white or coloured, was opaque twist.
//olosoro;; the darkest and richest type of sherry, with a very high alcohol content
Based (loosely?) off of Cantarella, a video. I claim no ownership to it.