the mighty doth fall so sweet [fanfic]
Title: The Mighty Doth Fall So Sweet
Pairing: PruAus
Rating: M
Summary: and so he falls, is ruined, and becomes something he swore he would never be.
Disclaimer: No.
"What if I told you no?" The question is quiet, almost soundless. A whisper in a crowded, loud room- a cowardly move, because he's not confident enough to voice it loudly, to look the other square in the eye and demand an answer. But he lacks what he would need to do such a thing- to stand up for himself.
It is not that Roderich is meek, or, God forbid, weak. He just… Protesting, over the years, has gotten harder and harder to do. He knows he's being taken advantage of, that he should say no, because even though he has gotten used to it, gotten used to the abuse and the shame, he is ashamed.
He considers himself a gentleman, yet every night- or every other night- he is destroyed, ruined, composure sent forcibly flying out the window. It's…it's not what he wants. He hates it, the uncontrolled aspect of it, the way that it makes him fall. Because when he gives in, and sees the satisfaction in those red, red eyes, he knows he's lost.
It's not a battle that's been announced. Rather, it is a quiet, intense sort of rivalry that compels him to resist. But his struggles, as of late, have weakened with his waning confidence. Soon, he knows, he will lose. But loss is acceptable, in most cases. You cannot win every battle- Roderich knows this fact well- and you will lose. But...He does not want to give in, to give in to these urges and words and feelings.
Austria has always tried to be detached, emotionless. A true gentleman will never show his feelings. But his fall to Prussia- Prussia, of all people- has made him weak. His temper snaps, his tears threaten to shed, his stress creases his forehead. He can no longer hide what he feels, and he hates it. It is distasteful, rude.
It is something that he knew from the beginning of his collapse would happen.
Gilbert had heard him, though, and garnet eyes look surprised, then derisive, fill with mirth. Cruel mirth. "As if. You can't resist me." The words ring true, and Roderich flinches. He has fallen far, so far. "I am being completely serious." The words are forced, cold, and indigo-blue eyes lift, lock with Gilbert's.
"I...I do not want to." He does not want to be ruined tonight. He does not want to admit what Gilbert already knows. If he falls tonight...He will finally, finally lose.
Prussia raised a hand, gripped Roderich's upper arm with a tight, unrelenting grip. Searching red eyes probe blue-violet, and when they finally blink, they are warm, indescribably warm. Roderich can't stop the heat from rising in his cheeks, can't stop his heart from pounding.
Gilbert knows.
And then he is being led- not willingly, no, he is being dragged, he isn't going, he's not, but why is he, he's walking, complacent and clearly, clearly willing. His body isn't obeying him, he decides. There's no way on Earth that he'd be willing, but...he is.
Austria cannot lie to himself for long.
The room is dark, and Prussia does not bother to turn on the lights. He kicks the door shut as he pushes Austria to the bed, tilting the other man's chin up to gaze at him momentarily, red eyes those of a starved man. Then he is kissing him, and Roderich knows that this, this, is a fall he will never recover from. This is his last.
The kiss is slow, like molten lava; bubbling and churning, a creeping heat that still smolders despite it's apparent tameness. Warm, pale hands unfasten his belt, and then he is standing, Prussia is kneeling, and he is being ruined. The first things to lose the battle to remain still are his lips, which part to release a strangled sound of something he refuses to name. His eyes are next, which close as he shivers, and remain as such, clamped tight. His hands fall, too, twisting in the silver-white hair, urging Gilbert on, pushing him harder, making the pale man take more, more, more-
His knees follow shortly after, shaking and trembling as his mind begins to blank. Then, he no longer cares, and Austria is thrusting to meet Gilbert's mouth, hot and wet and temptation made into flesh. Being ruined no longer feels so negative, and it...It doesn't feel like he's being ruined, per se, more like he's being torn down, remodeled, rebuilt, painted a different shade.
Roderich comes deep in Prussia's throat, thick, hot ropes leaving him with such a force that he collapses on the bed afterward, unable to stand. Gilbert gets to his feet, licking his lips, and his eyes are not warm, they are scalding, and he can't look away. He never has been able to tear himself from those eyes. Prussia looks pleased, victorious, and Roderich can only watch and sigh as the rest of his clothes are removed, cravat tossed to the floor carelessly. Gilbert's clothes follow, and open-mouth kisses are being pressed to his skin, everywhere, slick trails of saliva both warming and cooling, raising goose-flesh down Austria's back and up his arms. Each of his fingers- his precious, thin fingers- is kissed, sucked, given so much lavish attention that Roderich feels all the blood in his body, once again, flee south.
And then Gilbert's fingers- three of them- are presented to him, pushing past his lips and into the warmth of his mouth. Austria slicks them, tongue rolling over the tips as his eyes drift closed. They are promptly removed, then pressed, all at once, inside him.
He gives a half-scream, a gasp, as a spike of pain shoots from the entrance. But Prussia is impatient, not cruel, and a mouth covers his to muffle the pained whimpers as he works. As soon as he has been stretched, violated, the fingers are removed and Gilbert pushes his way inside without much more preamble, large and hard and exquisitely painful.
One would think that it would stop being agonizing, but the ache, the bite, it never abates. It is only covered, coming to a keening crescendo as Prussia moves in and out, changing his angle until he is sure that he is hitting the right place. His thrusts are deep, powerful, driven by lust, and Roderich writhes and mewls and sobs as he's destroyed, pleasure and pain bringing tears to his eyes, saliva dripping down his jaw as he bucks and arches to help in his own end, his fall, and he is glorious, dazed, perfection-
The final fall is the most exquisite thing he has ever felt, the most mind-numbing, beautiful thing he has ever experienced in all his long years.
When Gilbert follows with his own release, Roderich allows himself to fall flat, face turned sideways to stare into the darkness where he is certain the wall is. Red eyes above narrow, and a slightly sweat-slicked hand turns his head so that their eyes meet and hold in the blackness. It is then that he finally, finally breaks.
It is a relief, a blessed release to finally admit his loss, his greatest defeat. It is not sweet, but it is not painful, not nearly as terrible as he thought it would be. Victory is conceded simply, quietly, and Gilbert accepts it with little pride, little of his usual cheekiness or pride. A quiet concession, yet the words...
They taste as sweet as he imagines a victory would.
"Ich liebe dich, Gilbert."
And he is ruined.
aha, a re-post from that thing called fanfiction that I don't use anymore.
Pairing: PruAus
Rating: M
Summary: and so he falls, is ruined, and becomes something he swore he would never be.
Disclaimer: No.
"What if I told you no?" The question is quiet, almost soundless. A whisper in a crowded, loud room- a cowardly move, because he's not confident enough to voice it loudly, to look the other square in the eye and demand an answer. But he lacks what he would need to do such a thing- to stand up for himself.
It is not that Roderich is meek, or, God forbid, weak. He just… Protesting, over the years, has gotten harder and harder to do. He knows he's being taken advantage of, that he should say no, because even though he has gotten used to it, gotten used to the abuse and the shame, he is ashamed.
He considers himself a gentleman, yet every night- or every other night- he is destroyed, ruined, composure sent forcibly flying out the window. It's…it's not what he wants. He hates it, the uncontrolled aspect of it, the way that it makes him fall. Because when he gives in, and sees the satisfaction in those red, red eyes, he knows he's lost.
It's not a battle that's been announced. Rather, it is a quiet, intense sort of rivalry that compels him to resist. But his struggles, as of late, have weakened with his waning confidence. Soon, he knows, he will lose. But loss is acceptable, in most cases. You cannot win every battle- Roderich knows this fact well- and you will lose. But...He does not want to give in, to give in to these urges and words and feelings.
Austria has always tried to be detached, emotionless. A true gentleman will never show his feelings. But his fall to Prussia- Prussia, of all people- has made him weak. His temper snaps, his tears threaten to shed, his stress creases his forehead. He can no longer hide what he feels, and he hates it. It is distasteful, rude.
It is something that he knew from the beginning of his collapse would happen.
Gilbert had heard him, though, and garnet eyes look surprised, then derisive, fill with mirth. Cruel mirth. "As if. You can't resist me." The words ring true, and Roderich flinches. He has fallen far, so far. "I am being completely serious." The words are forced, cold, and indigo-blue eyes lift, lock with Gilbert's.
"I...I do not want to." He does not want to be ruined tonight. He does not want to admit what Gilbert already knows. If he falls tonight...He will finally, finally lose.
Prussia raised a hand, gripped Roderich's upper arm with a tight, unrelenting grip. Searching red eyes probe blue-violet, and when they finally blink, they are warm, indescribably warm. Roderich can't stop the heat from rising in his cheeks, can't stop his heart from pounding.
Gilbert knows.
And then he is being led- not willingly, no, he is being dragged, he isn't going, he's not, but why is he, he's walking, complacent and clearly, clearly willing. His body isn't obeying him, he decides. There's no way on Earth that he'd be willing, but...he is.
Austria cannot lie to himself for long.
The room is dark, and Prussia does not bother to turn on the lights. He kicks the door shut as he pushes Austria to the bed, tilting the other man's chin up to gaze at him momentarily, red eyes those of a starved man. Then he is kissing him, and Roderich knows that this, this, is a fall he will never recover from. This is his last.
The kiss is slow, like molten lava; bubbling and churning, a creeping heat that still smolders despite it's apparent tameness. Warm, pale hands unfasten his belt, and then he is standing, Prussia is kneeling, and he is being ruined. The first things to lose the battle to remain still are his lips, which part to release a strangled sound of something he refuses to name. His eyes are next, which close as he shivers, and remain as such, clamped tight. His hands fall, too, twisting in the silver-white hair, urging Gilbert on, pushing him harder, making the pale man take more, more, more-
His knees follow shortly after, shaking and trembling as his mind begins to blank. Then, he no longer cares, and Austria is thrusting to meet Gilbert's mouth, hot and wet and temptation made into flesh. Being ruined no longer feels so negative, and it...It doesn't feel like he's being ruined, per se, more like he's being torn down, remodeled, rebuilt, painted a different shade.
Roderich comes deep in Prussia's throat, thick, hot ropes leaving him with such a force that he collapses on the bed afterward, unable to stand. Gilbert gets to his feet, licking his lips, and his eyes are not warm, they are scalding, and he can't look away. He never has been able to tear himself from those eyes. Prussia looks pleased, victorious, and Roderich can only watch and sigh as the rest of his clothes are removed, cravat tossed to the floor carelessly. Gilbert's clothes follow, and open-mouth kisses are being pressed to his skin, everywhere, slick trails of saliva both warming and cooling, raising goose-flesh down Austria's back and up his arms. Each of his fingers- his precious, thin fingers- is kissed, sucked, given so much lavish attention that Roderich feels all the blood in his body, once again, flee south.
And then Gilbert's fingers- three of them- are presented to him, pushing past his lips and into the warmth of his mouth. Austria slicks them, tongue rolling over the tips as his eyes drift closed. They are promptly removed, then pressed, all at once, inside him.
He gives a half-scream, a gasp, as a spike of pain shoots from the entrance. But Prussia is impatient, not cruel, and a mouth covers his to muffle the pained whimpers as he works. As soon as he has been stretched, violated, the fingers are removed and Gilbert pushes his way inside without much more preamble, large and hard and exquisitely painful.
One would think that it would stop being agonizing, but the ache, the bite, it never abates. It is only covered, coming to a keening crescendo as Prussia moves in and out, changing his angle until he is sure that he is hitting the right place. His thrusts are deep, powerful, driven by lust, and Roderich writhes and mewls and sobs as he's destroyed, pleasure and pain bringing tears to his eyes, saliva dripping down his jaw as he bucks and arches to help in his own end, his fall, and he is glorious, dazed, perfection-
The final fall is the most exquisite thing he has ever felt, the most mind-numbing, beautiful thing he has ever experienced in all his long years.
When Gilbert follows with his own release, Roderich allows himself to fall flat, face turned sideways to stare into the darkness where he is certain the wall is. Red eyes above narrow, and a slightly sweat-slicked hand turns his head so that their eyes meet and hold in the blackness. It is then that he finally, finally breaks.
It is a relief, a blessed release to finally admit his loss, his greatest defeat. It is not sweet, but it is not painful, not nearly as terrible as he thought it would be. Victory is conceded simply, quietly, and Gilbert accepts it with little pride, little of his usual cheekiness or pride. A quiet concession, yet the words...
They taste as sweet as he imagines a victory would.
"Ich liebe dich, Gilbert."
And he is ruined.
aha, a re-post from that thing called fanfiction that I don't use anymore.