DV: (exhumed from IMOP) : worn out (NC-17)
Reincarnation fic - Tomas Valiente/Francis Drake
On the beach...
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Tired by a whole day spent working on the ship, Drake took a walk along the beach, barefoot, wearing sailors trousers and a loose shirt. Further south he found a small creek where turquoise wavelets lapped at the golden sand. The creek was surrounded by flat polished rocks - on one of them Tomas Valiente was asleep, naked. The book he had been reading had slipped from his fingers and fallen down on the neatly folded piled of clothes. Tomas was lying on his side, his head pillowed on his arm, his hair gently ruffled by the breeze.
Indeed, Drake thought, this was a delightful sight - and promising. Not wanting to awake his prisoner yet, he went to sit beside him, watching Tomas' smooth tanned skin, the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. The Spaniard had taken a fancy to swimming lately, a most strange whim that led him to spend long hours away from Drake. Swimming. Drake shook his head. What a waste of time. Of course, he mused, the result was rather satisfying; Tomas had never looked so good.
“The devil always assume a seductive form so as to lead us to our damnation more effectively,” Fletcher had told Drake one, his pale eyes boring holes into Drake's skull. That had been when the inane chaplain had tried to convince him that Tomas' demise was necessary, during the weeks of doubt when the terrifying storms had tossed the ships like mere cockleshells. Drake had almost believed him then. “He conjures the storms,” Fletcher had told the scared sailors huddled together in the hold. “He is a sorcerer and an heretic - he will be the death of us all!”
All the time Tomas had been sitting on his bed, reading and a little too calm to Drake's taste who had thought this a confirmation of Fletcher's suspicions until one night he had met his prisoner's eyes and read the fear in them, and the certainty of death. So the calm was only a pretence; the Spaniard was afraid but pride forbid him to admit it. That night they had not slept; the tempest had raged, throwing the ship against the waves - walls of water indeed - the whole hull of the Golden Hind hissing and creaking and protesting like a beast about to die under the hunter's attacks. That night he had listened to Tomas' uneven breathing; he had seen those perfect lips move in silent prayer. At dawn Drake had his mind made up - he would get rid of the Catholic gentleman, not out of superstition but because the men, all of them, gentlemen included, needed a scapegoat and Tomas was the perfect one - an heretic, an enemy. But when he stumbled out of the cabin, the weather was splendid; a radiant sun was shedding golden paths all over the calm ocean and it looked like the ship was sailing a sea of deep sapphire and molten gold.
The sudden calm had saved Tomas Valiente de la Pena more surely than anything else and Drake was glad it had. Now that they had robbed the riches of the treasure ship, now that the holds of the Golden hind were heavy with gold and jewels, it did not matter any longer whether Tomas de la Pena had conjured the storms or not.
Drake sighed, brushing his fingers along a loose strand of black hair. Running a hand along the warm skin of the hidalgo's arm, Drake smiled at the way the long lashes fluttered and lifted, revealing a sleepy gaze. “I fell asleep,” Tomas said, stretching under Drake's caress.
“Aye. While we worked like slaves,” Drake said. “I suppose that working with the common men is too much to ask from your Lordship? Even the English gentlemen give us a hand from time to time.”
Tomas sat up, running his fingers through his dark hair, shaking his head. “I would not dare laying a hand on your ship, good Captain - I am quite certain that your chaplain would want to exorcize her after that,” he said, and added. “Besides, you wore me out, Senor Capitan.”
Drake smiled, trying to hide the pleasure such a statement gave him, and failing, if the Spaniard's amused smile was any sign. “Aye,” he said. “I intend to keep you well worn out until we reach Europe.”
None of them ever broached the forbidden subject of what would happen to Tomas when the ship would moor in the harbour of Plymouth.
When Drake's hand moved from Tomas' arm to his belly and further down to rest over his cock, Tomas sighed softly and lay back down. Under Drake's ministrations his member swelled and hardened, answering every touch with a slight tremor.
'Your dalliance with this heretic is not only sinful; it it a danger to this venture,' Fletcher had told him, stubborn, earlier in the morning; and Drake knew that his nephew and Fletcher shared this belief, and so did their friends, but when he saw his Spanish Grandee lean with so much good grace and accept his caresses like those of an equal, he wanted to throw Fletcher and his stupid misconceptions overboard.
He leaned forward and kissed Tomas, parting the perfect lips with his tongue for a languorous kiss, before licking and nipping his way down to the brown nipples, torturing them softly, licking and biting one while he pinched and scratched the other with his fingers, the lithe body writing under his. “You are as sensitive as a wench,” Drake whispered softly, blowing air on the wet flesh. Overwhelmed with sensations, Tomas lifted his hips and rubbed his erection against Drake's trousers, moaning. Throwing his arms around Drake's shoulders he sat up and pulled him into another kiss, ferocious and hungry. Then, standing up all of a sudden, he pushed Drake violently backwards, laughing as the Captain stumbled and fell down in the shallow waters. “Now this is something Fletcher would like to see,” he said holding out his hand to help Drake up. Drake smiled mildly and pulled hard on the Spaniard's had, taking him down with him - Tomas yelled as he was flipped over on his stomach and dragged up on the sand, his head out of the water but his body partially immersed.
“Deceptive artificial knave,” Drake roared, keeping Tomas pinned to the sand while he got rid of his trousers. He managed to get out of his soaked shirt single-handed, and brought it down hard on the Spaniard's firm buttocks, again and again like a whip, Tomas growling in pain as his skin reddened. Fighting Drake's hold on him, he managed to overpower him, throwing him down. They rolled together on the sand, entangled, water splashing all over them: a fight. A playful, arousing fight, but still a fight, their gazes sparkling with the excitement of it, blows landing haphazardly, hands grabbing hair, trying to get a grip on slippery skin. They were soon panting and hard and none of them would have the upper hand. Tomas was breathless and snarling, Drake focused and frowning.
When Tomas finally subsided, Drake straddled him, a strong grip around his wrists to keep him pinned to the ground, his body weighing over Tomas'. “What do you want?” he asked breathlessly.
Tomas looked deep into the Dragon's eyes and quivered. “Have your way with me, Captain General.”
Water made everything different; Drake's hands slid on the wet skin, arousing it, leaving goose bumps in their trails, his mouth tasted salt everywhere and for the first time, Tomas agreed to touch Drake's member with his lips and his tongue, tentatively at first, licking the wet smooth skin, taking the tip into his mouth - that was something he had always refused until then. Drake stopped him before it was too late, pulling back out of the warm haven of the Spaniard's mouth and rolled him on his stomach, sliding lower, parting the cheeks of the taut ass, watching as the soft ripples lapped at Tomas puckered hole. Leaning forward, he licked the water pooling there and a shiver ran down his spine at Tomas' soft groan of desire. Drake opened him wider and pushed his tongue inside: at that Thomas sobbed softly, his thighs parting, trembling with desire, the strong muscles tightening under his skin. Drake rose slightly, pressing the blunt head of his cock against it, water making the entry easier, until he was deep inside Tomas' body and Tomas was lifting his hips, pushing back in rhythm with Drake's thrusts. Perfect, Drake thought. That was perfect, what he wanted, a strong man, a beautiful man, a man of far better condition than his answering his lust with a lust of his own, moaning and crying and asking for more, more, harder, Francis please, mi Draco, plunder me - Drake thrust hard and deep, feeling the not so sweet friction of his cock inside the tight passage and not caring. It would hurt later but the pleasure building deep inside him was so urgent and overwhelming that he did not care and when it exploded inside him, he could only hold tight, reality vanishing, his only universe this body under his and he barely heard Tomas' cry of pleasure...
Drake rested his forehead between Tomas' shoulder blades, kissing softly, pulling out slowly, hearing Tomas' hiss of pain.
They crawled back to the rocks, exhausted and sore. Drake's arms and shoulders were black and blue and he had a cut lip from their fight. Tomas' body was mottled with bruises and in the morning he would sport a black eye.
“Your chaplain won't like this,” Tomas said, laughing. He then tried to stand up, stumbled and fell back. “I am afraid I need some time to recover.”
They waited until they could walk and dressed, clumsy. Then they walked back slowly to the tents, Tomas standing very straight and Drake glaring back at those who dared look at them for a little too long. Fletcher saw them and gasped before walking back into his tent with an expression of indignation.
Certainly, Dake thought, that was one of the best moments of his life. That night, before falling asleep, the body of his Spanish gentleman warming him, he started to think of a way to keep Tomas by his side long after the end of the venture.