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*
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.
Reply
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.
Reply
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.
Reply
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?
Reply
Reply
Reply
Can't wait for more!
Reply
Reply
Write more, write more!
...and just as question, is Japan going to be involved in this? I know Russia fought with him over Manchuria...
Reply
Reply
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
Reply
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*
Reply
Reply
Leave a comment