Shanghai Butterfly: Tuesday
anonymous
July 27 2010, 20:01:50 UTC
Apologies for that awful spelling error on last fill's title *facedesk* x 300. Also, preapology to readers who expected/wanted more England/China. This fill is a bit more loveless and snarky and angsty, but hopefully with better smut. Yup, that makes everything okay. ***
Lanterns on the ceiling, transparent, red silk around the bed, dishes of fragrant oil and lit incense sticks scattered so artfully, Yao maneuvers himself around the five servant girls currently crowding his small room, arranging and rearranging the decorations to perfection. It is to look like they have always been there, that Yao, in fact, lives in some sort of hokey Chinese curio shop instead of his bedroom (which is usually sparse except for the bed and the vanity).
Because it is Tuesday. Because this is Monsieur (he did not accept Mr.) Bonnefoy’s day and he demands a show. Yao suppresses a grimace as one maid unfurls a particularly hideous scroll. Tuesdays were usually a lot of work.
Francis himself arrives two hours later, one hour after his “appointment” had technically started. This, too, Yao had anticipated.
“Mon Dieu, how I have missed my little Butterfly,” The tall blonde man throws open the door, and coos to Yao. He hoists packages that he throws aside briskly before moving towards Yao. “You are more beautiful every time I see you-” He pauses his litany of smoky compliments as he bends and kisses Yao’s offered hand.
The dark-haired man is wrapped in a delicate white brocade dress, high in the neck, and with layers of robe underneath. There is no slit up the side, no shaping around his figure at all. The only thing that keeps the dress from being respectable is the color - for the Chinese, white is the color of death.
But Francis doesn’t know that. Francis doesn’t know much of anything, Yao has decided, so when the French man saw the dress in the store window, he bought it for his favorite whore without a second thought - not knowing at all that he had bought a mourning dress. Yao keeps it, because he thinks it rather suits him. Also, because it makes him laugh with derision every time he wears it - which is pretty much how he gets through any encounter with Francis.
The girls downstairs had taught him how to perform a little sex-kitten smile, and Yao practices it now, inclining his head for extra impact. Francis eats it all up, and then some, purring out compliments in French, English, even some broken Chinese that he had been trying pick up.
Yao, ignoring the fact that he had just been called a broomstick, gracefully invites the blonde man for some tea. Francis agrees, smiling warmly.
“…it was less than a good day, my dear, less indeed.” Francis accepts the cup Yao offers him, and blows on the hot liquid. “That wench, Kirkland, foiled me in negotiations, again. You know, his eyebrows make his face look square.”
Yao nearly chokes on his tea. He coughs discreetly into his sleeve as Francis continues on, unheeding. Of all of Yao’s customer’s, Francis probably minds his silence the least. After all, the man talks enough for two.
“…but it was all worth it to come back and see you,” The French man palms Yao’s unsuspecting hand, and brings it to his mouth, looking at him with glowing eyes from across the table. “Butterfly.”
This job, Yao has long since learned, is all smoke and sex and lies. In fact, if one is good with the lies, sex becomes relatively unimportant. Yao leans over the table and draws his fingers slowly across the side of Francis’ face as the blonde man ardently rains kisses over his other hand.
Francis does not want to make love to a man, he wants to make love to all of China. Rather, he wants to make love to what he believes China to be - silk robes, string music, smiles hidden behind fluttering fans. He wants to tame it, put it in a box, and ship it overseas to decorate his parlor with.
Shanghai Butterfly: Tuesday (2)
anonymous
July 28 2010, 03:20:38 UTC
Yao walks over to Francis’ side of the table and climbs on his lap. It is difficult with the skirts, so he subtly swishes them away, exposing his long, pale legs for a brief instant. An instant is all Francis needs, as he puts his hand on Yao’s knee and begins sliding upwards towards the thigh. The Chinese man swats away the offending appendage, blushing girlishly (inwardly, he fumes).
“Oh I get it,” The blonde man sighs, drinking in the perfume of spice and mystery. “It’s your show.” He puts both hands in the air, a mockery of helplessness. “Hands off.”
Smiling sharply, Yao rewards his client’s obedience with a sensual shifting of his hips. Francis groans, his eyes shining.
He is not going to keep still. Yao pushes down both sleeves of his dress, exposing his shoulders wantonly, and while Francis is distracted with that, whips off the sash around his dress.
It is made of high-quality silk, white like death, strong as it snaps between Yao’s hands. The Chinese man presents it for approval, letting it slip through his fingers, invitingly (secretly measuring it for a fit around Francis’ neck).
“You want to tie me down?” Francis raises an eyebrow, “It saddens me how little you trust, mon Papillion.” He leans forward, dragging his tongue along Yao’s delicate collarbone. The smaller man hisses as he feels stubble against his skin. “Let’s do it.” Francis consents, with a mocking smile.
He underestimates me, Yao thinks dreamily, as he presses his body against Francis’ and loops the other man’s wrists behind the chair. He underestimates Chinese silk. He thinks it’s something he can tear apart once he grows tired of this game.
But this is, just a game. The war is over, and this is a game played in a high-priced brothel in the center of a town where the red lights are streaked with filth, and death, and dreams that have dissolved long ago. A game played for the consolation prize of one perfect, porcelain, china doll.
Francis tests his bonds patronizingly as Yao leans back. The Chinese man is not smiling. He does not smile when his customers aren’t looking.
With the sash gone, the dress begins to fall open. As Francis looks back, Yao keeps his eye contact while slowly sliding down one sleeve , and then another. His shoulders are now completely bare.
A barely perceptible sigh, and Yao arches his back, pressing his lower body ever so delicately against the growing hardness in Francis’ pants. The blonde man groans, his eyes half-lidded with arousal as he watches his Papillion’s sensual dance.
Layer by layer, the dress comes off…Yao’s nipples stiffen and perk in the cold air of the room. He places his chest - the delicate milk-white skin - barely out of the Frenchman’s reach. And from the way that Francis is licking his lips; the man is enjoying being so cruelly teased. Yao’s bottom, smoothed with silk, rubs crescent-moon circles on his lap, encouraging the prominent bulge already tenting the front of his slacks.
“Yes… s-s'il vous plait, mon cheri…” Francis hisses, low in his throat, trying his hardest not to buck upwards.
Yao looks down, his dark eyes glowing. For a second, maybe more, he surrenders to his own fantasy of control. When he touches himself through the last layer of silk, he bites his lip at the swift rush of heat to his groin. The Chinese man throws his head back, running his hands through a wave of dark hair in a wild motion that causes hairpins to rain onto the hard floor - a symphony of bell chimes. Hooking one hand in Francis’ shirt, he swings back, panting lightly.
Yao’s face is full of challenge.
Francis’, of enraptured surrender.
Biting his lip, Yao begins to pluck at his own nipples, pinching to swollen redness…then soothing with slow circles against the skin.
“God…” Francis’ breath hitches; he is salivating like a dog. “Please…I want…”
Smiling lightly at his small victory, Yao presses closer, allows Francis to lap at his nipples. But he has underestimated the stimulation to his own pinched-sensitive skin. The blonde man’s mouth is obscenely clever as it swirls around the tip, settling down to suck firmly.
Shanghai Butterfly: Tuesday (3)
anonymous
July 28 2010, 15:34:22 UTC
Yao feels himself tremble, unspooling like a silk cocoon. The pleasure begins to build at the base of his stomach, creeping steadily downwards. From this one, single, touch he feels, a moment - stripped bare.
If he is broken open, what will come out?
Shivering, Yao takes back control, pulling away physically. With a last nip, Francis releases him, a thin line of saliva running down the corner of his grinning mouth.
The Chinese man is outwardly composed, smiling coolly down at his client. Inside, he is shaken, just a hair. Francis’ eyes flicker for a moment, as if sensing the subtle change.
He opens his mouth to say…what? Another empty endearment … an expletive, perhaps, to lighten the mood? An order to release the bonds?
Yao stalls all possibilities by slipping two fingers inside Francis’ mouth. He makes sure that the Frenchman can see where his other hand is going, down, to Yao’s own erection, rubbing it through the silk with a quick intake of air.
Francis is finally silent, sucking, tonguing, nipping at Yao’s fingers submissively while watching the slim Chinese man rock against his own palm. Yao pushes away the silk a little too hastily to be teasing, exposing his blushing cock already dripping with pre-cum. There is a vibration around his fingers as Francis hums appreciatively. Yao's small, slim hand runs up and down the cock’s length in an agonizingly slow speed - taking both men to the edge.
Without tearing his eyes from Francis’ face, Yao withdraws the fingers from his mouth and ghosts them down his own chest, hips… He leans back against the table behind him, resting his slim shoulders against cold wood. With dark, slippery hair framing his pale face, he looks like a debauched goddess.
Yao poses the slicked digits at his puckered entrance, asking an unspoken question with his eyes, already knowing the answer.
Francis, suddenly finding his mouth too dry to make a noise, turns his head and places a soft kiss on Yao’s ankle. The dark-haired man takes that as a sign (at this point, he would have taken anything), and slides one finger inside.
From his angle, Francis can see everything - the saliva-coated digit sheathing halfway, and then fully, its pair joining in with a shuddering sigh from Yao.
The slim man delicately, slowly, fucks himself. Arching his back, one hand fisting his erection, the other between his thighs. Francis, completely entranced, is startled when his own hardness is stroked by Yao’s clever heel.
“M-mon dieu…” Francis gives into his frantic instincts, bucking up to the Asian man’s foot, rubbing his length against the sweet curve of his arch. Between his slitted eyes Francis can see Yao drawing close. His entrance is tightening spastically against his fingers, his breaths coming in high whimpers.
Yao closes his eyes against the onslaught of pleasure, willing himself not to question why his body feels so heated and heavy. Black hair spays across the glossy table as he thrashes his head, willing some relief from the tightening in his gut. His fingers are stroking his prostate lightly; making his entire body shake with longing - he knows, that if he just crooks his index just so …
What is he waiting for?
The Frenchman stills with a soft exclamation, and Yao feels a dampness spreading between his toes. With a frustrated hiss, he reaches deep inside himself one more time, while his other hand frantically pumps his slick erection.
Yao orgasms silently, arching off of the table, his cum splattering over his stomach and chest.
In the aftermath, he slumps against the glossy tabletop, his legs still spread wide. Both men are damp with sweat. After a few moment of rest, Yao drags himself up on his elbows, smiling serenely at his client.
“Release me.” Francis orders lazily, and Yao complies. Instead of walking around back, however, he leans towards the blonde man again, kissing him openmouthed, pressing their chests together and smearing cum all over his nice shirt.
Shanghai Butterfly: Tuesday (4)
anonymous
July 28 2010, 17:16:12 UTC
Francis gives a low purr of satisfaction as his wrists are unbound, immediately bringing eager hands to his Papillion’s silk-clad body. Without warning, he strips off Yao’s last item of clothing and flings it away, feeling the Chinese man shiver at the sensation of cold air on his bare skin.
Immediately, his warm hands and clever fingers remedy that. Stroking, pinching, and kneading the flesh that has been so long denied to him.
Francis has had many women before, many men, many whores… But, oh god, does he love the curve of this hip, the deep, sweet scent of this skin, the softness right below this ear…
But that’s wrong. No, no love is not the right word. It can’t be.
If Yao had opened his eyes at this moment, he would have seen a fierce, concentrated look on Francis’ face - completely out of character for the normally easy-loving man. But the look is gone in an instant, and Yao is too busy tangling tongues with the Frenchman, anyway, to pay attention to anything but the sensation of being awoken anew. His erection, rubbing against his stomach and Francis’ shirt, stirs weakly.
They don’t move from the chair, but somehow Francis’ stained clothing comes off in the middle of kissing, touching and grinding.
Yao knows that Francis wants to do it again. The Frenchman claimed that he has amazing stamina, and usually asks for sex an average of seven times a night. Which was just too rich, Yao grumbles in his head, since I’m the one doing all the work. In contrast, Arthur’s maximum is three - a number that Yao is more comfortable with, especially because there is ample time to rest between each round.
If Yao could put his finger on it, he would say that Arthur is like a spigot (one of those handy, new inventions that had been introduced a little while ago and had automatically been installed all over the brothel) - the volume and rate of water could be controlled to the point of turning it on and off completely. Francis, on the other hand, was more like a moderately-sized river. Playful, outwardly harmless, constantly flowing, wanting, needing… but with an inky depth and a strong current that sweeps away all undefended.
Tonight, he takes Yao again while they are both sitting in the chair…then for a second time bent over the table. Somehow, they make it to the bed, afterwards, for another three rounds. Then finally, to the floor, where Yao sleepily milks away the last of Francis’ energy with his mouth.
They stay there, having pulled all of the blankets, sheets, and pillows to nest around them (the one thing that Yao never forfeits is his European bed).
“Here, I think you’ll love this, Cherie…” Francis nuzzles the dip of Yao’s shoulder before leaning over him and reaching for a previously-discarded package. Wrapping paper and opened presents are littered all around them. Yao knows what will be decorating his room next week.
The Chinese man smiles in thanks as Francis slips the slim gift into his hands. It is wrapped in fine, black silk, rich enough to feed a family of four for a week. Yao tosses it aside with practice, marveling over the fine ivory fan inside.
“Like it, Papillion?” Francis puts his chin on the top of Yao’s head, tangling their naked legs together.
Yao carefully nods his appreciation, twisting back for a hesitant kiss. Francis deepens it, letting it go nowhere. They lazily explore each other’s bodies, surrounded by the cocoon of cloth.
When Yao pulls back, he wonders at the expression on Francis’ face. Perhaps because it is late, and he is tired, but the usual spite that he feels for the European is strangely absent.
If he had a voice, he would ask, “Why are you looking at me like that? Are you so…empty? Who do you really love?”
And if Francis could answer, he would perhaps say with a smile, “I love everyone, cheri.” But they both would know that that is false.
Shanghai Butterfly: Tuesday (5)
anonymous
July 28 2010, 17:44:04 UTC
Yao doesn’t understand much about his French client - like why he is so needy after sex, why he always wants to touch, even when it doesn’t lead to anything, why he loves to bring expensive gifts on top of paying the already-exorbitant fee - but he does know this much.
Francis loves nobody, not even himself…he is just not capable of it. And this is what makes them similar.
It is Yao’s deepest nightmare - that, the cocoon will open, the china doll will break and…nothing, nothing is inside.
“Mon Cheri…Mon Papillion…” Francis breathes in the scent of Yao’s hair before turning away and reaching for his cigarette holder. It is his habit after sex to take a smoke. Yao doesn’t mind, even lights it for him. The smoke is an improvement over the blonde man’s overly-strong cologne, at least.
“Merci,” Francis murmurs, going back to his original position. His fingers lazily curl against Yao’s. “So I was thinking…hm, like I always do, yes? That this place is gorgeous, of course….but, Paris is absolutely magnifique this time of year.” He smiles, picturing his home country. “I would love it if you could…accompany me.” A laugh. “You’d love it, I’m sure…and I could show you off to all my friends. Won’t they be … eh, how do you say, hot under the collar when they see the little beauty I have brought?”
Yao shakes his head immediately, smiling a little. Perhaps, in a moment of weakness, he would like to go, would like to play the empty-headed whore for once and leave all of this…pride, this bloody history behind.
But he cannot. For Francis, although he does not know it, lusts only after the Butterfly, the high-priced courtesan famous for his beauty, his mystery, the one even the most influential men have trouble scheduling an appointment with. Not…Yao. Without this country, he is nothing.
So Yao refuses and Francis sighs in defeat.
Silence reigns over the room as the oil lamps burn down, flickering their dying breaths against the silk screens. Francis’ breathing becomes slower, and he sleeps, curled against Yao’s slim form. The Chinese man does not move a muscle. He is contemplating what new trick he should prepare for next week, to keep Francis interested.
The next thing he knows, its morning, and he is alone among the pillows and presents, and the lingering scent of Francis’ tobacco.
Sex, smoke and lies.
***
OH NOES! *facedesk* Anon apologizes for this turning into an utter post-coitial nightmare. Damn me and my love of happy endings!
Anyway, NOTES: French fashion at this time was completely facinated with the Orient. Rich people imported Chinese decorations etc. and even held parties where they showed off their exotic furnishings. There were lots of wild stories being thrown around about Chinese people, as well. Eventually this trend spread to England, as well, and some other parts of Europe.
Re: Shanghai Butterfly: Tuesday (5)
anonymous
July 28 2010, 19:16:24 UTC
*__*
This is so hot... I usually don't like angsty Hetalia stories because I think so many go overboard with the maudlin and the sappy and the boohoo-on-and-on; I loooove this one, because I think you have hit the right balance of emotional poignancy and restraint - it is not over-emotional, it's a very dark interpretation of canon that still feels grounded and compelling and in character. I also really liked the awareness of the characters not being human. And of course I like the complexity of Yao's characterization, how he's down but not out, still reserving for himself a certain margin of dignity and control.
Haha, I wonder if England would find the comparison to a spigot complimentary...
By the way, which other countries are going to be customers?
Re: Shanghai Butterfly: Tuesday (5)
anonymous
July 29 2010, 02:55:39 UTC
I really love how you treated them both here. Very sensual and evocative images, but you get a feeling of something sad and profound as well. I appreciate a classy spin on a rare pairing any day of the week!
Re: Shanghai Butterfly: Tuesday (5)
anonymous
July 30 2010, 06:48:25 UTC
This is really, really beautiful, and good lord I love your characterisation of France. And as the OP of the 'a week in the sexual life of...' prompt, I can pretend this is filling my prompt too *evil laugh*
OP here! Again.
anonymous
July 30 2010, 01:06:47 UTC
You know what? Screw this, I want this out in the clear.
I LOVE YOU. LET ME HAVE YOUR BABIES. PLZ. Forget everything I said before, I simply- Oh, GOD. Please forgive OP for her heathen ways, for I have seen the light, and it is the most wondrous light in the world. This is beautiful, and more than what thought I asked for.
It is so sexy, so poignant, and the interactions between Yao and his suitors are exquisite. I am loving the repetition of offers from each suitor to make the Butterfly his own, and Yao refusing every time, and his strong connection to his land.
Will there soon be a offer to Yao to become one with Mother Russia? =D
My first proposal! *gasps in shock* Thanks for the comments XD My ego hp is now fully charged! Russia/China is up next...and it's about to get even more angsty (oh noes...!), so stay tuned! It's also my first Russia/China fic, so we'll see how it goes *shivers* Thanks again! *goes off to "research" Russia/China relations*
***
Lanterns on the ceiling, transparent, red silk around the bed, dishes of fragrant oil and lit incense sticks scattered so artfully, Yao maneuvers himself around the five servant girls currently crowding his small room, arranging and rearranging the decorations to perfection. It is to look like they have always been there, that Yao, in fact, lives in some sort of hokey Chinese curio shop instead of his bedroom (which is usually sparse except for the bed and the vanity).
Because it is Tuesday. Because this is Monsieur (he did not accept Mr.) Bonnefoy’s day and he demands a show. Yao suppresses a grimace as one maid unfurls a particularly hideous scroll. Tuesdays were usually a lot of work.
Francis himself arrives two hours later, one hour after his “appointment” had technically started. This, too, Yao had anticipated.
“Mon Dieu, how I have missed my little Butterfly,” The tall blonde man throws open the door, and coos to Yao. He hoists packages that he throws aside briskly before moving towards Yao. “You are more beautiful every time I see you-” He pauses his litany of smoky compliments as he bends and kisses Yao’s offered hand.
The dark-haired man is wrapped in a delicate white brocade dress, high in the neck, and with layers of robe underneath. There is no slit up the side, no shaping around his figure at all. The only thing that keeps the dress from being respectable is the color - for the Chinese, white is the color of death.
But Francis doesn’t know that. Francis doesn’t know much of anything, Yao has decided, so when the French man saw the dress in the store window, he bought it for his favorite whore without a second thought - not knowing at all that he had bought a mourning dress. Yao keeps it, because he thinks it rather suits him. Also, because it makes him laugh with derision every time he wears it - which is pretty much how he gets through any encounter with Francis.
The girls downstairs had taught him how to perform a little sex-kitten smile, and Yao practices it now, inclining his head for extra impact. Francis eats it all up, and then some, purring out compliments in French, English, even some broken Chinese that he had been trying pick up.
Yao, ignoring the fact that he had just been called a broomstick, gracefully invites the blonde man for some tea. Francis agrees, smiling warmly.
“…it was less than a good day, my dear, less indeed.” Francis accepts the cup Yao offers him, and blows on the hot liquid. “That wench, Kirkland, foiled me in negotiations, again. You know, his eyebrows make his face look square.”
Yao nearly chokes on his tea. He coughs discreetly into his sleeve as Francis continues on, unheeding. Of all of Yao’s customer’s, Francis probably minds his silence the least. After all, the man talks enough for two.
“…but it was all worth it to come back and see you,” The French man palms Yao’s unsuspecting hand, and brings it to his mouth, looking at him with glowing eyes from across the table. “Butterfly.”
This job, Yao has long since learned, is all smoke and sex and lies. In fact, if one is good with the lies, sex becomes relatively unimportant. Yao leans over the table and draws his fingers slowly across the side of Francis’ face as the blonde man ardently rains kisses over his other hand.
Francis does not want to make love to a man, he wants to make love to all of China. Rather, he wants to make love to what he believes China to be - silk robes, string music, smiles hidden behind fluttering fans. He wants to tame it, put it in a box, and ship it overseas to decorate his parlor with.
China doll.
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“Oh I get it,” The blonde man sighs, drinking in the perfume of spice and mystery. “It’s your show.” He puts both hands in the air, a mockery of helplessness. “Hands off.”
Smiling sharply, Yao rewards his client’s obedience with a sensual shifting of his hips. Francis groans, his eyes shining.
He is not going to keep still. Yao pushes down both sleeves of his dress, exposing his shoulders wantonly, and while Francis is distracted with that, whips off the sash around his dress.
It is made of high-quality silk, white like death, strong as it snaps between Yao’s hands. The Chinese man presents it for approval, letting it slip through his fingers, invitingly (secretly measuring it for a fit around Francis’ neck).
“You want to tie me down?” Francis raises an eyebrow, “It saddens me how little you trust, mon Papillion.” He leans forward, dragging his tongue along Yao’s delicate collarbone. The smaller man hisses as he feels stubble against his skin. “Let’s do it.” Francis consents, with a mocking smile.
He underestimates me, Yao thinks dreamily, as he presses his body against Francis’ and loops the other man’s wrists behind the chair. He underestimates Chinese silk. He thinks it’s something he can tear apart once he grows tired of this game.
But this is, just a game. The war is over, and this is a game played in a high-priced brothel in the center of a town where the red lights are streaked with filth, and death, and dreams that have dissolved long ago. A game played for the consolation prize of one perfect, porcelain, china doll.
Francis tests his bonds patronizingly as Yao leans back. The Chinese man is not smiling. He does not smile when his customers aren’t looking.
With the sash gone, the dress begins to fall open. As Francis looks back, Yao keeps his eye contact while slowly sliding down one sleeve , and then another. His shoulders are now completely bare.
A barely perceptible sigh, and Yao arches his back, pressing his lower body ever so delicately against the growing hardness in Francis’ pants. The blonde man groans, his eyes half-lidded with arousal as he watches his Papillion’s sensual dance.
Layer by layer, the dress comes off…Yao’s nipples stiffen and perk in the cold air of the room. He places his chest - the delicate milk-white skin - barely out of the Frenchman’s reach. And from the way that Francis is licking his lips; the man is enjoying being so cruelly teased. Yao’s bottom, smoothed with silk, rubs crescent-moon circles on his lap, encouraging the prominent bulge already tenting the front of his slacks.
“Yes… s-s'il vous plait, mon cheri…” Francis hisses, low in his throat, trying his hardest not to buck upwards.
Yao looks down, his dark eyes glowing. For a second, maybe more, he surrenders to his own fantasy of control. When he touches himself through the last layer of silk, he bites his lip at the swift rush of heat to his groin. The Chinese man throws his head back, running his hands through a wave of dark hair in a wild motion that causes hairpins to rain onto the hard floor - a symphony of bell chimes. Hooking one hand in Francis’ shirt, he swings back, panting lightly.
Yao’s face is full of challenge.
Francis’, of enraptured surrender.
Biting his lip, Yao begins to pluck at his own nipples, pinching to swollen redness…then soothing with slow circles against the skin.
“God…” Francis’ breath hitches; he is salivating like a dog. “Please…I want…”
Smiling lightly at his small victory, Yao presses closer, allows Francis to lap at his nipples. But he has underestimated the stimulation to his own pinched-sensitive skin. The blonde man’s mouth is obscenely clever as it swirls around the tip, settling down to suck firmly.
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ENGLAND/CHINA %()$*)^(*)(GU FAPFAPFAP.
Dammit, now I'm starting to enjoy France/China as well...
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If he is broken open, what will come out?
Shivering, Yao takes back control, pulling away physically. With a last nip, Francis releases him, a thin line of saliva running down the corner of his grinning mouth.
The Chinese man is outwardly composed, smiling coolly down at his client. Inside, he is shaken, just a hair. Francis’ eyes flicker for a moment, as if sensing the subtle change.
He opens his mouth to say…what? Another empty endearment … an expletive, perhaps, to lighten the mood? An order to release the bonds?
Yao stalls all possibilities by slipping two fingers inside Francis’ mouth. He makes sure that the Frenchman can see where his other hand is going, down, to Yao’s own erection, rubbing it through the silk with a quick intake of air.
Francis is finally silent, sucking, tonguing, nipping at Yao’s fingers submissively while watching the slim Chinese man rock against his own palm. Yao pushes away the silk a little too hastily to be teasing, exposing his blushing cock already dripping with pre-cum. There is a vibration around his fingers as Francis hums appreciatively. Yao's small, slim hand runs up and down the cock’s length in an agonizingly slow speed - taking both men to the edge.
Without tearing his eyes from Francis’ face, Yao withdraws the fingers from his mouth and ghosts them down his own chest, hips… He leans back against the table behind him, resting his slim shoulders against cold wood. With dark, slippery hair framing his pale face, he looks like a debauched goddess.
Yao poses the slicked digits at his puckered entrance, asking an unspoken question with his eyes, already knowing the answer.
Francis, suddenly finding his mouth too dry to make a noise, turns his head and places a soft kiss on Yao’s ankle. The dark-haired man takes that as a sign (at this point, he would have taken anything), and slides one finger inside.
From his angle, Francis can see everything - the saliva-coated digit sheathing halfway, and then fully, its pair joining in with a shuddering sigh from Yao.
The slim man delicately, slowly, fucks himself. Arching his back, one hand fisting his erection, the other between his thighs. Francis, completely entranced, is startled when his own hardness is stroked by Yao’s clever heel.
“M-mon dieu…” Francis gives into his frantic instincts, bucking up to the Asian man’s foot, rubbing his length against the sweet curve of his arch. Between his slitted eyes Francis can see Yao drawing close. His entrance is tightening spastically against his fingers, his breaths coming in high whimpers.
Yao closes his eyes against the onslaught of pleasure, willing himself not to question why his body feels so heated and heavy. Black hair spays across the glossy table as he thrashes his head, willing some relief from the tightening in his gut. His fingers are stroking his prostate lightly; making his entire body shake with longing - he knows, that if he just crooks his index just so …
What is he waiting for?
The Frenchman stills with a soft exclamation, and Yao feels a dampness spreading between his toes. With a frustrated hiss, he reaches deep inside himself one more time, while his other hand frantically pumps his slick erection.
Yao orgasms silently, arching off of the table, his cum splattering over his stomach and chest.
In the aftermath, he slumps against the glossy tabletop, his legs still spread wide. Both men are damp with sweat. After a few moment of rest, Yao drags himself up on his elbows, smiling serenely at his client.
“Release me.” Francis orders lazily, and Yao complies. Instead of walking around back, however, he leans towards the blonde man again, kissing him openmouthed, pressing their chests together and smearing cum all over his nice shirt.
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Immediately, his warm hands and clever fingers remedy that. Stroking, pinching, and kneading the flesh that has been so long denied to him.
Francis has had many women before, many men, many whores… But, oh god, does he love the curve of this hip, the deep, sweet scent of this skin, the softness right below this ear…
But that’s wrong. No, no love is not the right word. It can’t be.
If Yao had opened his eyes at this moment, he would have seen a fierce, concentrated look on Francis’ face - completely out of character for the normally easy-loving man. But the look is gone in an instant, and Yao is too busy tangling tongues with the Frenchman, anyway, to pay attention to anything but the sensation of being awoken anew. His erection, rubbing against his stomach and Francis’ shirt, stirs weakly.
They don’t move from the chair, but somehow Francis’ stained clothing comes off in the middle of kissing, touching and grinding.
Yao knows that Francis wants to do it again. The Frenchman claimed that he has amazing stamina, and usually asks for sex an average of seven times a night. Which was just too rich, Yao grumbles in his head, since I’m the one doing all the work. In contrast, Arthur’s maximum is three - a number that Yao is more comfortable with, especially because there is ample time to rest between each round.
If Yao could put his finger on it, he would say that Arthur is like a spigot (one of those handy, new inventions that had been introduced a little while ago and had automatically been installed all over the brothel) - the volume and rate of water could be controlled to the point of turning it on and off completely. Francis, on the other hand, was more like a moderately-sized river. Playful, outwardly harmless, constantly flowing, wanting, needing… but with an inky depth and a strong current that sweeps away all undefended.
Tonight, he takes Yao again while they are both sitting in the chair…then for a second time bent over the table. Somehow, they make it to the bed, afterwards, for another three rounds. Then finally, to the floor, where Yao sleepily milks away the last of Francis’ energy with his mouth.
They stay there, having pulled all of the blankets, sheets, and pillows to nest around them (the one thing that Yao never forfeits is his European bed).
“Here, I think you’ll love this, Cherie…” Francis nuzzles the dip of Yao’s shoulder before leaning over him and reaching for a previously-discarded package. Wrapping paper and opened presents are littered all around them. Yao knows what will be decorating his room next week.
The Chinese man smiles in thanks as Francis slips the slim gift into his hands. It is wrapped in fine, black silk, rich enough to feed a family of four for a week. Yao tosses it aside with practice, marveling over the fine ivory fan inside.
“Like it, Papillion?” Francis puts his chin on the top of Yao’s head, tangling their naked legs together.
Yao carefully nods his appreciation, twisting back for a hesitant kiss. Francis deepens it, letting it go nowhere. They lazily explore each other’s bodies, surrounded by the cocoon of cloth.
When Yao pulls back, he wonders at the expression on Francis’ face. Perhaps because it is late, and he is tired, but the usual spite that he feels for the European is strangely absent.
If he had a voice, he would ask, “Why are you looking at me like that? Are you so…empty? Who do you really love?”
And if Francis could answer, he would perhaps say with a smile, “I love everyone, cheri.” But they both would know that that is false.
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Francis loves nobody, not even himself…he is just not capable of it. And this is what makes them similar.
It is Yao’s deepest nightmare - that, the cocoon will open, the china doll will break and…nothing, nothing is inside.
“Mon Cheri…Mon Papillion…” Francis breathes in the scent of Yao’s hair before turning away and reaching for his cigarette holder. It is his habit after sex to take a smoke. Yao doesn’t mind, even lights it for him. The smoke is an improvement over the blonde man’s overly-strong cologne, at least.
“Merci,” Francis murmurs, going back to his original position. His fingers lazily curl against Yao’s. “So I was thinking…hm, like I always do, yes? That this place is gorgeous, of course….but, Paris is absolutely magnifique this time of year.” He smiles, picturing his home country. “I would love it if you could…accompany me.” A laugh. “You’d love it, I’m sure…and I could show you off to all my friends. Won’t they be … eh, how do you say, hot under the collar when they see the little beauty I have brought?”
Yao shakes his head immediately, smiling a little. Perhaps, in a moment of weakness, he would like to go, would like to play the empty-headed whore for once and leave all of this…pride, this bloody history behind.
But he cannot. For Francis, although he does not know it, lusts only after the Butterfly, the high-priced courtesan famous for his beauty, his mystery, the one even the most influential men have trouble scheduling an appointment with. Not…Yao. Without this country, he is nothing.
So Yao refuses and Francis sighs in defeat.
Silence reigns over the room as the oil lamps burn down, flickering their dying breaths against the silk screens. Francis’ breathing becomes slower, and he sleeps, curled against Yao’s slim form. The Chinese man does not move a muscle. He is contemplating what new trick he should prepare for next week, to keep Francis interested.
The next thing he knows, its morning, and he is alone among the pillows and presents, and the lingering scent of Francis’ tobacco.
Sex, smoke and lies.
***
OH NOES! *facedesk* Anon apologizes for this turning into an utter post-coitial nightmare. Damn me and my love of happy endings!
Anyway, NOTES:
French fashion at this time was completely facinated with the Orient. Rich people imported Chinese decorations etc. and even held parties where they showed off their exotic furnishings. There were lots of wild stories being thrown around about Chinese people, as well. Eventually this trend spread to England, as well, and some other parts of Europe.
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This is so hot... I usually don't like angsty Hetalia stories because I think so many go overboard with the maudlin and the sappy and the boohoo-on-and-on; I loooove this one, because I think you have hit the right balance of emotional poignancy and restraint - it is not over-emotional, it's a very dark interpretation of canon that still feels grounded and compelling and in character. I also really liked the awareness of the characters not being human. And of course I like the complexity of Yao's characterization, how he's down but not out, still reserving for himself a certain margin of dignity and control.
Haha, I wonder if England would find the comparison to a spigot complimentary...
By the way, which other countries are going to be customers?
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Can't wait for more!
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Write more, write more!
...and just as question, is Japan going to be involved in this? I know Russia fought with him over Manchuria...
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I LOVE YOU. LET ME HAVE YOUR BABIES. PLZ. Forget everything I said before, I simply- Oh, GOD. Please forgive OP for her heathen ways, for I have seen the light, and it is the most wondrous light in the world. This is beautiful, and more than what thought I asked for.
It is so sexy, so poignant, and the interactions between Yao and his suitors are exquisite. I am loving the repetition of offers from each suitor to make the Butterfly his own, and Yao refusing every time, and his strong connection to his land.
Will there soon be a offer to Yao to become one with Mother Russia? =D
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Thanks for the comments XD My ego hp is now fully charged!
Russia/China is up next...and it's about to get even more angsty (oh noes...!), so stay tuned! It's also my first Russia/China fic, so we'll see how it goes *shivers*
Thanks again! *goes off to "research" Russia/China relations*
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