Honestly, for all the knives and how this is supposed to be some part of Hell, it almost seems like a good thing. Maybe the world they'd decided to stay in could have turned out okay. But Penance still wins out on ever place before it, at least.
Francis' skin is heated, breath gasping low into the air at the way that it feels as Bullseye pushes into him, heat that curls on his skin, sensation that lights up his nerves. Francis trembles, rocking his hips back against him as they finds the pace. It's fast and rough, and the archer's hands cling against him for something to hold on to, as much as because he likes the way his blood feels on his fingertips. And he does. It's a messy sort of thrill, makes the moment that much hotter. He's never been the sort for slow and sweet, never particularly had the opportunity or the occasion, anyway. But especially not now when what he wants most is for the other man to break him a little touch by touch. Until he's overwhelmed and drowning in the pleasure, taken apart in pieces.
The slide of their bodies agitates the cuts they both carry, the pace is almost punishing, and Francis loves it. His head tilting back, moans pulled from his mouth with how those thrusts shove back into him. And fuck, but he likes the praise, even if it's probably just thoughtless sextalk it still hits him hard. His shoulders curl and there's a flicker in his eyes. There's something about being good like this, when he knows that he isn't really good by any metric. Too sharp and too greedy and wrong in all the right ways. But he likes that Lester doesn't go easy, and Francis takes all of that aggression like it's exactly what he wanted.
"Yeah, you feel-- Fuck." He sort of loses the words, the next thrust cutting them into silence as his breath chokes in his throat for a moment. His face tilting in towards Lester, not so much looking for a kiss, but just breath on skin, a nip of teeth. Just to feel a little more.
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Francis' skin is heated, breath gasping low into the air at the way that it feels as Bullseye pushes into him, heat that curls on his skin, sensation that lights up his nerves. Francis trembles, rocking his hips back against him as they finds the pace. It's fast and rough, and the archer's hands cling against him for something to hold on to, as much as because he likes the way his blood feels on his fingertips. And he does. It's a messy sort of thrill, makes the moment that much hotter. He's never been the sort for slow and sweet, never particularly had the opportunity or the occasion, anyway. But especially not now when what he wants most is for the other man to break him a little touch by touch. Until he's overwhelmed and drowning in the pleasure, taken apart in pieces.
The slide of their bodies agitates the cuts they both carry, the pace is almost punishing, and Francis loves it. His head tilting back, moans pulled from his mouth with how those thrusts shove back into him. And fuck, but he likes the praise, even if it's probably just thoughtless sextalk it still hits him hard. His shoulders curl and there's a flicker in his eyes. There's something about being good like this, when he knows that he isn't really good by any metric. Too sharp and too greedy and wrong in all the right ways. But he likes that Lester doesn't go easy, and Francis takes all of that aggression like it's exactly what he wanted.
"Yeah, you feel-- Fuck." He sort of loses the words, the next thrust cutting them into silence as his breath chokes in his throat for a moment. His face tilting in towards Lester, not so much looking for a kiss, but just breath on skin, a nip of teeth. Just to feel a little more.