Bring Me Back Down [3/4]
anonymous
October 4 2009, 19:25:24 UTC
“I have told you before,” Francis says, “that this helps me deal with that part of my past more than it harms me. Trust me. I will tell you if this triggers unpleasant memories.”
Francis feels fingertips on his chin, and his face is turned to meet Arthur’s. “Do you promise?” Arthur asks, worry seeping into that velvet accent. “Do you promise to tell me if anything reminds you?”
Francis lets his eyes fall shut and thinks.
A king’s head held over a cheering crowd.
The madness of his revolution.
Napoleon’s rise and fall at England’s hands.
The exhaustion of World War I.
The invasion and occupation of his lands in World War II.
“Francis?”
Francis opens his eyes with a small smirk. “I promise, Arthur,” he says, “but you’ll have to keep your own eyes open as well. This isn’t something I can do alone.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Arthur murmurs, but he gives Francis a quick kiss on the lips. “Head forward,” he says, “arms down at your sides.”
Francis obeys, shutting his eyes again and wondering -
Oh. Oooh.
Arthur’s wicked hands squeeze and release his shoulders, kneading around and between his shoulder blades. The ache in his shoulders turns into a pleasant, sweet thrum, and he feels like he’s floating out of his own body again, expanding, forgetting himself.
He’s not surprised when he feels his cock twitch and stir between his legs, though he probably should be.
“Ah - yesssss,” he hisses as Arthur rubs a knot in just the right way, leaning back and into those hands. “Yes, oh, Dieu, don’t stop, please~.”
If Arthur sees Francis’s hardening cock, he doesn’t say a word as his hands slip from his bare shoulders to his bandaged sides, rubbing and squeezing. Francis sighs and reaches back, touches the shining leather of Arthur’s boot, rubbing and caressing.
He hears Arthur swear under his breath. Finally, he thinks, and allows himself a triumphant smile.
“Arthur,” he sighs as those hands come down to grasp his hips. “Arthur, please.”
And if Arthur hadn’t seen it before, he sees it now. Francis knows, because Arthur’s chin rests on his shoulder, and he can just picture those green eyes widening at the sight of Francis’s growing erection.
“Francis, I -”
“Please,” he pleads again, hating the way a whine sneaks into his voice, and squeezes Arthur’s thigh beneath the smooth, body-warmed leather.
“Francis, it’s too soon, I don’t know if your body can take another round of sex -”
Francis reaches back with one hand, grabs a fistful of sand-colored hair, turns his head, and kisses Arthur full on the mouth. This is not their lazy, relaxed kiss of before; this is desperation and pleading, this is teeth on lips and beads of blood.
“Use your hand,” Francis pants in between kisses. “Use your…Dieu, your anything, please, Arthur.” He feels the tension beginning to well up within him again, senses the swell and crest of what might be ecstasy or madness
He opens his eyes to find Arthur considering. A thumb runs over Francis’s hip; he bites his lip and muffles a moan in his mouth. It tastes heady and wanting, harder to swallow than it is to regurgitate.
Arthur kisses his nose, then, and his body swells with that little contact. “Lie back on the bed,” Arthur whispers.
And Francis feels suppler now, more moveable, even if his body is still a bit tired. So Arthur helps him, guiding him with hands and fingers and arms until Francis is lying back on the bed, his hands curled up by his head, looking down at Arthur with hazy blue eyes and quick, shallow breaths.
Arthur waits a beat before crooking an eyebrow. “Enjoying the view, you great frog?” he deadpans, and it is just so Arthur that Francis can’t help but laugh. The low, deep chuckles vibrate through his own body and into Arthur’s as he feels lips just below his navel.
Francis exhales as he watches Arthur duck his head and nuzzle the hair trailing down to his half-hard cock. He hisses when he feels fingers lift it, and cries out when a wet tongue traces the thick vein on the bottom - every curve and every branch-off. He tries to grind his hips down into it and keens when Arthur leans back in response, keeping just the tip of his tongue in contact.
Francis feels fingertips on his chin, and his face is turned to meet Arthur’s. “Do you promise?” Arthur asks, worry seeping into that velvet accent. “Do you promise to tell me if anything reminds you?”
Francis lets his eyes fall shut and thinks.
A king’s head held over a cheering crowd.
The madness of his revolution.
Napoleon’s rise and fall at England’s hands.
The exhaustion of World War I.
The invasion and occupation of his lands in World War II.
“Francis?”
Francis opens his eyes with a small smirk. “I promise, Arthur,” he says, “but you’ll have to keep your own eyes open as well. This isn’t something I can do alone.”
“You think I don’t know that?” Arthur murmurs, but he gives Francis a quick kiss on the lips. “Head forward,” he says, “arms down at your sides.”
Francis obeys, shutting his eyes again and wondering -
Oh. Oooh.
Arthur’s wicked hands squeeze and release his shoulders, kneading around and between his shoulder blades. The ache in his shoulders turns into a pleasant, sweet thrum, and he feels like he’s floating out of his own body again, expanding, forgetting himself.
He’s not surprised when he feels his cock twitch and stir between his legs, though he probably should be.
“Ah - yesssss,” he hisses as Arthur rubs a knot in just the right way, leaning back and into those hands. “Yes, oh, Dieu, don’t stop, please~.”
If Arthur sees Francis’s hardening cock, he doesn’t say a word as his hands slip from his bare shoulders to his bandaged sides, rubbing and squeezing. Francis sighs and reaches back, touches the shining leather of Arthur’s boot, rubbing and caressing.
He hears Arthur swear under his breath. Finally, he thinks, and allows himself a triumphant smile.
“Arthur,” he sighs as those hands come down to grasp his hips. “Arthur, please.”
And if Arthur hadn’t seen it before, he sees it now. Francis knows, because Arthur’s chin rests on his shoulder, and he can just picture those green eyes widening at the sight of Francis’s growing erection.
“Francis, I -”
“Please,” he pleads again, hating the way a whine sneaks into his voice, and squeezes Arthur’s thigh beneath the smooth, body-warmed leather.
“Francis, it’s too soon, I don’t know if your body can take another round of sex -”
Francis reaches back with one hand, grabs a fistful of sand-colored hair, turns his head, and kisses Arthur full on the mouth. This is not their lazy, relaxed kiss of before; this is desperation and pleading, this is teeth on lips and beads of blood.
“Use your hand,” Francis pants in between kisses. “Use your…Dieu, your anything, please, Arthur.” He feels the tension beginning to well up within him again, senses the swell and crest of what might be ecstasy or madness
He opens his eyes to find Arthur considering. A thumb runs over Francis’s hip; he bites his lip and muffles a moan in his mouth. It tastes heady and wanting, harder to swallow than it is to regurgitate.
Arthur kisses his nose, then, and his body swells with that little contact. “Lie back on the bed,” Arthur whispers.
And Francis feels suppler now, more moveable, even if his body is still a bit tired. So Arthur helps him, guiding him with hands and fingers and arms until Francis is lying back on the bed, his hands curled up by his head, looking down at Arthur with hazy blue eyes and quick, shallow breaths.
Arthur waits a beat before crooking an eyebrow. “Enjoying the view, you great frog?” he deadpans, and it is just so Arthur that Francis can’t help but laugh. The low, deep chuckles vibrate through his own body and into Arthur’s as he feels lips just below his navel.
Francis exhales as he watches Arthur duck his head and nuzzle the hair trailing down to his half-hard cock. He hisses when he feels fingers lift it, and cries out when a wet tongue traces the thick vein on the bottom - every curve and every branch-off. He tries to grind his hips down into it and keens when Arthur leans back in response, keeping just the tip of his tongue in contact.
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