Re: And you Reap What You Sow (Francis/Arthur) 4
anonymous
April 2 2009, 22:58:00 UTC
Francis kissed Arthur, harshly. But England bit at his underlip suddenly, so hard that it drew blood. France hissed in pain and broke the kiss. He looked at England with anger. It cost him all his self-control to not tackle that bastard. How dare he!
Blood was running down England's mouth. It was probably France's blood. Arthur swiped his tongue over his blood-smeared lips; the blood tasted bitter. Not sweet. It tasted nothing like wine. France had once said - in jest - that his blood tasted like sweet wine.
What a wanker.
Francis grinned smugly. So Arthur wanted to do this the hard way. Francis wiped the blood from mouth with his hand. Fine with him. He'd do anything that was necessary. It wasn't like he was beyond using dirty tricks. And Arthur, even if he was putting on a good display of strength now, was in a weakened state. Francis smiled impishly - nearly cruelly - as he pulled out a leather strap from his pockets. He always kept it there for special purposes. Arthur frowned.
What the hell was this git planning? It couldn't be-
Francis used Arthur's surprise to really tackle him this time. And, while Arthur did put on a good show, it didn't take much for Francis to gain the upper hand. Sooner than they'd both expected, Arthur's hands were tied and he was facing the desk. Francis pushed him further against it, so hardly that Arthur groaned in pain.
“I didn't do it for glory. Or because I was expecting anything from that brat,” France said, twisting Arthur's arm so cruelly that the other nation groaned in pain. “In fact, I think we spent more money on this little war than we should have.”
England groaned, trying to break free. But the leather strap France had bound on his wrist kept him in place. It had really been a moronic idea to drink that much.
“Then why? Why?”
“Oh Arthur, don't you think I knew how much you wanted that boy? How you longed-” France undid England's trousers, letting them slip to the floor, “to touch him? To take him as yours?”
Arthur's eyes widened for a moment. Francis got it all wrong. He didn't want Alfred like that. No, not like that. Alfred had been like a little brother to him. He'd wanted to protect him from all evils. Arthur had wanted Alfred to look up to him. But that had turned out all wrong, hadn't it?
Alfred hadn't needed protection. Still, Arthur had insisted on his needing it. Because he'd been so young and inexperienced. No, that was wrong. Alfred had been a quick learner.
Because -
It had been raining then. Arthur had felt the raindrops drench his skin. Water drops fell down his forehead, past his nose and wetted his lips. But that didn't matter. Neither did the filth that his body was covered in matter. The mud was something he could wash away. He could wipe the rain away as well.
It all hadn't mattered. He'd been through worse before. He'd seen, tasted and heard worse. Alfred wasn't a towering figure. He wasn't someone England couldn't defeat.
Yet, those eyes ... Eyes that looked up at him full of admiration and affection were now nearly mocking. They mocked Arthur in the disappointment they had showed.
And while Alfred - or was it America now? - had looked down on him like that, that was when Arthur had realised that he'd loved him. That he'd never wanted to let him go. He'd understood that letting him go was like being torn in half.
And, even if England could wipe away the water and get rid off the mud stains, he'd never gain that part back again. Because once your heart was broken, it could never be fixed again. A crack always reminded.
“I didn't-” Arthur started, this time not trying to wring free from France's grasp. It didn't matter anymore.
Francis just huffed. He didn't buy it. He didn't buy a word of England's protests (didn't because he'd seen it with his own eyes, had seen how England's green eyes had lighted up for Alfred. Him and no one else).
“But you did. You wanted him. You still want him. More than anything else. And it - it's disgusting.”
And you Reap What You Sow (Francis/Arthur) 6
anonymous
April 2 2009, 23:07:10 UTC
Oh, he'd known Arthur for centuries. Centuries that had passed by like a storm, leaving nothing but confusion and disappointment in its wake. Other nations had fallen. But he'd seen England rise again and again.
England's backside was bared to him now. For a while, he just enjoyed - appreciated - the sight, for Arthur was still struggling and his whole body was wiggling. And that included his ass. Tempting, tempting.
Without any further ado. France stuck a finger into the man's hole. Arthur gasped. He wasn't sure whether it was in pain or surprise.
“I'm not like you, Francis. I would have never taken advantage of someone like you -”
“Don't lie to me, Arthur. You know that's cowardice, non?”
England didn't ask France to stop. The shock of being called a coward shook him too deeply. He wasn't one. Or was he? If he'd been truly strong, he'd have -
What would I have done?
He felt another finger inserted into his asshole. The pain was so acute. It stung. It had been a while since he'd succumbed to someone (and that had only been one person. The very person who was now doing it to him again). He bit underlip, tore the delicate skin there and felt the blood trickle down his lips. Some of it trickled past his throat. England didn't wipe it away with his tongue. He knew that France liked it when he looked like this. That asshole had always gone for such debased perversity.
Arthur closed his eyes, praying that he wouldn't hiss out. That would have been beneath him, truly. France didn't need to know how much this was affecting him. Then, it didn't matter anymore. France had defeated him already. Even so, England wanted to keep that small shred of pride. France didn't have to know that this was killing him.
But France knew. Oh did France know. It filled him with pleasure to see how Arthur was writhing on that desk, gasping and shuddering because of him. He twisted his fingers, earning a shout that could have been nearly a moan. Time to add another. Time to see how much it took to make England beg. He wanted England to come undone before his eyes - and only his.
“Stop-” Arthur gasped out again, but his voice turned into a groan as he felt a cool hand grip his cock. France's hand was so cold, so coarse. His fingernails were long and sharp. And they scraped - scratched - the head of his cock none-too-gently whenever his hand pumped. Upwards. Downwards. Over and over again.
France didn't stop there. This wasn't even the beginning. He used his free hand to pinch Arthur's still clothed nipples, squeezing unmercifully.
He stroked harder, letting his slightly sweaty hands go and up down the already aroused erection. Protest and struggle as he might, France knew that England wanted this. His body betrayed him. And even if he didn't want it, Francis would ensure - once he was done with him - Arthur would beg him to take him again and again. Until the end of time.
“You've always been such a liar.”
England didn't say anything. He screwed his eyes shut and let France do what he wanted. It was true. He didn't want Francis to stop. Why, it filled England with utmost pleasure to think that by having France take him, he'd be able to wash away all the imprints that Alfred had left on the man's body. By having Francis take him, Alfred would become no more than a shadowy fingerprint.
Take me. Take me like you took him. It ran through his mind.
Make me bleed.
Francis didn't wait long. Not bothering with his clothes for once, he hastily wrestled free from the trousers that covered his already throbbing arousal. The respective and offensive garment was carelessly thrown on the wooden floor, joining England's previously tossed away pants as well. Lubrication wasn't needed. As far as he was concerned, he'd given Arthur enough of that. Besides, he was too impatient to waste another moment on fruitless foreplay.
And you Reap What You Sow (Francis/Arthur) 7
anonymous
April 2 2009, 23:17:52 UTC
Oh bloody hell, England thought, he's going to tear me in half. He bit even more fiercely on his lips. Gnawing on already torn and bloody skin. Francis entered him in one go - his cock was fully sheathed within him. And it hurt - it was the scorching pain of something hard and big being thrusted maliciously into a tight channel. It was a disgusting metaphor; however, he couldn't think of anything else to explain that sensation. After all, France was pretty big, bigger than he'd remembered him to be. England swore that there was blood running down his thighs. The bastard - that berk - had not even bothered to ease his way into him.
And yet, Arthur's cock was leaking with pre-cum. And yet, sweat was soaking his body while his heart was beating feverishly in his chest. And yet, his body, flamed up like a furnace, wanted more. What was more - France had never noticed it - but England's hands had freed themselves from the leather strips. He was no longer bound. Any time, and he could punch his way out of this situation.
But before that, Arthur decided to play along. Just for a bit.
“You're so tight, cheri,” France uttered admiringly, sounding hoarse. It wasn't only tight but hot. Francis' grip on Arthur's hips grew even tighter. He'd forgotten how wonderful this felt.
“Will you start moving or are we to remain like this till the end of time?” Arthur suddenly spoke out, voice coming out firm. Firmer than France had expected it to. But he shook his head. He should have remembered. This was England - and he'd always been strong. In some way, even impenetrable.
“You English are so -”
“Insufferable?” Arthur helpfully added. And then - much to Francis surprise - tore himself away from France. He winced a bit as he felt the other's man cock, which had still been deeply seated within him this, leave his anus. His eyes could see Francis' reddened penis now, red and throbbing. England thought it nearly pitiable. He felt pride swell within him. After all, he'd done this. Made Francis lower himself like this. Yes, he could see that France was half mad with want. He smiled. Then, Arthur, using his hands as support, sat down on the desk. Then, his eyes met France's. This was an open challenge.
“Do it now - or I'll pummel you to death.”
“Wicked.” France licked his lips. But he wasn't pleased. When England had pushed him away, France nearly felt like one of those flighty poets, and he'd have used the phrase “banished from paradise”, only that he hadn't even had the chance to taste sanctuary. England had pushed him away before that. Feeling angry, he spanked Arthur's ass and entered him even more ruthlessly than he'd done before.
Arthur hissed out - the intrusion was more forceful than he'd expected. If he'd not been relaxed, it would have felt like being-England preferred not think about it. Because it wasn't worth it. Instead, he focused on shifting his hips and forcing France to move. And move he did.
“It's funny how I -”
Arthur looked up at him with a hateful look and Francis' words died down his throat. So yes, he'd had America. America had begged him, pleaded him to take him with all his skill (Francis had enough of that skill that made men groan and women scream wantonly).
“Don't talk about Alfred-” England hissed out, anger flaring up in him. His fingernails scraped down Francis' back and he spat on his face. “You don't own him.”
France, still pounding in and out of England's body, only smirked. He wiped the spit out of his face with his hand, smirk never leaving his face. “No. He's not mine.”
England's green eyes clouded with distrust. He could already sense it on France's lips - he'd bring out another slap on his ego. He'd not have it. He'd not have it. Arthur prayed that something akin to a miracle would happen. Like Francis suddenly becoming mute. Or him developing something like compassion. Sadly, and much to England's chagrin, that never occurred.
Then again, it wasn't like Arthur had ever showed compassion towards him. At least, France would have said so. Therefore, he didn't shut up, didn't hold his tongue. Even if he knew that this was hurting Arthur.
And you Reap What You Sow (Francis/Arthur) 8
anonymous
April 2 2009, 23:25:29 UTC
England remained silent. Even if he felt like a spike had been pierced through his heart. He felt cold all over. Numbness was taking over his soul, even though he was currently being fucked. His body was hot, his stomach was filled with - not butterflies, maybe - but something he couldn't decipher. Something that made him feel fluttery.
“No,” France said, pulling his manhood out of Arthur's twitching hole before slamming back in with cruel swiftness,” and you were never his either. You ... belong ... to ... “
Me, he wanted to say. You belong to me, me..
But that would have been baring his soul and heart to Arthur. And Arthur, even if his heart was breaking into pieces for another, would have not shown him any mercy. Even if Arthur was under him now - legs wrapped around his waist and body arching upwards - he would never be his. France could have this. He could pound into him over and over again until they both came undone.
And yet, he'd never have what he really wanted. Because he only had England temporarily. Worst thing was Arthur didn't even know how much Francis needed - craved - for his attention. Because if he had, he would never allowed Francis to take him like this. So yes, Arthur allowed himself to be fucked- allowed him all this, but that was all.
I'm nothing to Arthur
The sickening realisation poured over Francis like hot candle-wax, seeping into his skin with poisonous venom. He shuddered. If it hadn't been for the pleasure - the mind-numbing heat and tightness of Arthur - he would have cried. He wasn't going to last long. He could feel England's walls clenching around his cock. Arthur was moaning as well, and it was not beautiful. They were more grunts than moans too, but it was at least a reaction.
Arthur's toes curled. The desk was shaking underneath him. France pulled out, then entered him again. In and out. The vicious cycle continued. All Arthur could do was gasp. Sickening - to him, this was utterly sickening - pleasure filled his body, starting somewhere in his stomach and spreading over his body like a fever.
This wasn't about Alfred anymore. Maybe it was, but another part of it was about -
England didn't really know what it was. Maybe, this made him feel better about himself. After all, it wasn't lost on him that France desired him in one way or the other. He doubted that the man felt anything like love for him. Yet, it wasn't like he didn't know that Francis wanted to possess him. So, he gave him just that, gave him a taste of what it meant to own him. Only to mock him about it later (he'd spit in his face, tear his lungs out later on. Oh yes, he would).
Because England would pay him back for it. For humiliating him like this.
Even it was flattering. Flattering to have this being done to him. As much as it was sickening. Arthur knew that, once the haze passed by, he'd hate himself for this. He knew that he would spend hours repenting this. Then, this was what Arthur wanted. A reason to hate Francis even more. A reason to hate himself even more. It was with that on his mind that Arthur came, screaming all the while. During that time, he didn't even notice that tears were streaming down his face.
Oh, Alfred.
Francis did. An impulse made him want to kiss the tears away, but then he understood. Or better, he heard Arthur mouth those two words. Of course, Francis thought. Of course.
It's not as if I could break him that easily.
It was over. Francis pulled out, leaving part of his semen inside of Arthur. His stomach was covered with the fruit of his labour - England had come all over him. France wiped the cum away with a napkin, which he'd gotten as present from one of the women he'd wooed at court once.
He didn't even bother to look up at Arthur. Arthur wasn't looking at him, anyway. He heard the shuffle of clothes and an awkward cough. Evidently, the other man was dressing up, trying to forget what had just happened. Francis swallowed. His throat felt awfully dry. When his eyes met Arthur's - briefly, he saw with perfect clarity how things stood between them.
And you Reap What You Sow (Francis/Arthur) 9 - final
anonymous
April 2 2009, 23:28:37 UTC
Francis didn't say anything, and Arthur never stopped him from leaving. So, he shut the door with a bang, leaving everything as it had been before. Even if it was a lie. Already the world was changing around them. America was a new country with new ideals. France knew that those ideals were dangerous, spreading around like a wildfire. He knew that - sooner or later - things that had been taken for granted once would crush under the weight of their sins.
And yet, he knew that Arthur - obstinate Arthur - wouldn't change.
In the end, Francis knew he'd not gained anything.
--
I'll have to apologise for any remaining errors as well as the goofs I made posting this here. I'm dead-tired. I thank the person who looked this over for me! Anything she missed is solely my fault since it solely means I suck at proofreading =_=. I don't know what to say about this. It's my longest fill and I'm nervous about this?
Re: And you Reap What You Sow (Francis/Arthur) 9 - final
anonymous
April 7 2009, 23:50:00 UTC
Anon, I love you for saying that you didn't like this - this kind of honesty really makes me respect you. Because this is bleak and depressing. I could see why you wouldn't like it. I tend to dislike bleak and depressing stories myself, which is why writing this was hard. I think the intensity stems from the fact that I very involved in this fic.
Re: And you Reap What You Sow (Francis/Arthur) 9 - final
anonymous
April 7 2009, 23:55:24 UTC
T-thank you, anon! I'm glad you felt the hatred, bitterness and anguish in this. I couldn't have hoped for more (I was hoping to portray these emotions!). And yes, it is a cruel triangle. I couldn't have written Arthur's feeling for Alfred out of this, no matter how hard I tried.
Re: And you Reap What You Sow (Francis/Arthur) 9 - final
anonymous
April 3 2009, 12:26:36 UTC
Daaaaaamn, writer!anon, this is AMAZING. I've never really liked this pairing but after reading this--now I really love the dynamic they have. You wrote it so intensely I was pretty much sitting on the edge of my seat.
Blood was running down England's mouth. It was probably France's blood. Arthur swiped his tongue over his blood-smeared lips; the blood tasted bitter. Not sweet. It tasted nothing like wine. France had once said - in jest - that his blood tasted like sweet wine.
What a wanker.
Francis grinned smugly. So Arthur wanted to do this the hard way. Francis wiped the blood from mouth with his hand. Fine with him. He'd do anything that was necessary. It wasn't like he was beyond using dirty tricks. And Arthur, even if he was putting on a good display of strength now, was in a weakened state. Francis smiled impishly - nearly cruelly - as he pulled out a leather strap from his pockets. He always kept it there for special purposes. Arthur frowned.
What the hell was this git planning? It couldn't be-
Francis used Arthur's surprise to really tackle him this time. And, while Arthur did put on a good show, it didn't take much for Francis to gain the upper hand. Sooner than they'd both expected, Arthur's hands were tied and he was facing the desk. Francis pushed him further against it, so hardly that Arthur groaned in pain.
“I didn't do it for glory. Or because I was expecting anything from that brat,” France said, twisting Arthur's arm so cruelly that the other nation groaned in pain. “In fact, I think we spent more money on this little war than we should have.”
England groaned, trying to break free. But the leather strap France had bound on his wrist kept him in place. It had really been a moronic idea to drink that much.
“Then why? Why?”
“Oh Arthur, don't you think I knew how much you wanted that boy? How you longed-” France undid England's trousers, letting them slip to the floor, “to touch him? To take him as yours?”
Arthur's eyes widened for a moment. Francis got it all wrong. He didn't want Alfred like that. No, not like that. Alfred had been like a little brother to him. He'd wanted to protect him from all evils. Arthur had wanted Alfred to look up to him. But that had turned out all wrong, hadn't it?
Alfred hadn't needed protection. Still, Arthur had insisted on his needing it. Because he'd been so young and inexperienced. No, that was wrong. Alfred had been a quick learner.
Because -
It had been raining then. Arthur had felt the raindrops drench his skin. Water drops fell down his forehead, past his nose and wetted his lips. But that didn't matter. Neither did the filth that his body was covered in matter. The mud was something he could wash away. He could wipe the rain away as well.
It all hadn't mattered. He'd been through worse before. He'd seen, tasted and heard worse. Alfred wasn't a towering figure. He wasn't someone England couldn't defeat.
Yet, those eyes ... Eyes that looked up at him full of admiration and affection were now nearly mocking. They mocked Arthur in the disappointment they had showed.
And while Alfred - or was it America now? - had looked down on him like that, that was when Arthur had realised that he'd loved him. That he'd never wanted to let him go. He'd understood that letting him go was like being torn in half.
And, even if England could wipe away the water and get rid off the mud stains, he'd never gain that part back again. Because once your heart was broken, it could never be fixed again. A crack always reminded.
“I didn't-” Arthur started, this time not trying to wring free from France's grasp. It didn't matter anymore.
Francis just huffed. He didn't buy it. He didn't buy a word of England's protests (didn't because he'd seen it with his own eyes, had seen how England's green eyes had lighted up for Alfred. Him and no one else).
“But you did. You wanted him. You still want him. More than anything else. And it - it's disgusting.”
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England's backside was bared to him now. For a while, he just enjoyed - appreciated - the sight, for Arthur was still struggling and his whole body was wiggling. And that included his ass. Tempting, tempting.
Without any further ado. France stuck a finger into the man's hole. Arthur gasped. He wasn't sure whether it was in pain or surprise.
“I'm not like you, Francis. I would have never taken advantage of someone like you -”
“Don't lie to me, Arthur. You know that's cowardice, non?”
England didn't ask France to stop. The shock of being called a coward shook him too deeply. He wasn't one. Or was he? If he'd been truly strong, he'd have -
What would I have done?
He felt another finger inserted into his asshole. The pain was so acute. It stung. It had been a while since he'd succumbed to someone (and that had only been one person. The very person who was now doing it to him again). He bit underlip, tore the delicate skin there and felt the blood trickle down his lips. Some of it trickled past his throat. England didn't wipe it away with his tongue. He knew that France liked it when he looked like this. That asshole had always gone for such debased perversity.
Arthur closed his eyes, praying that he wouldn't hiss out. That would have been beneath him, truly. France didn't need to know how much this was affecting him. Then, it didn't matter anymore. France had defeated him already. Even so, England wanted to keep that small shred of pride. France didn't have to know that this was killing him.
But France knew. Oh did France know. It filled him with pleasure to see how Arthur was writhing on that desk, gasping and shuddering because of him. He twisted his fingers, earning a shout that could have been nearly a moan. Time to add another. Time to see how much it took to make England beg. He wanted England to come undone before his eyes - and only his.
“Stop-” Arthur gasped out again, but his voice turned into a groan as he felt a cool hand grip his cock. France's hand was so cold, so coarse. His fingernails were long and sharp. And they scraped - scratched - the head of his cock none-too-gently whenever his hand pumped. Upwards. Downwards. Over and over again.
France didn't stop there. This wasn't even the beginning. He used his free hand to pinch Arthur's still clothed nipples, squeezing unmercifully.
He stroked harder, letting his slightly sweaty hands go and up down the already aroused erection. Protest and struggle as he might, France knew that England wanted this. His body betrayed him. And even if he didn't want it, Francis would ensure - once he was done with him - Arthur would beg him to take him again and again. Until the end of time.
“You've always been such a liar.”
England didn't say anything. He screwed his eyes shut and let France do what he wanted. It was true. He didn't want Francis to stop. Why, it filled England with utmost pleasure to think that by having France take him, he'd be able to wash away all the imprints that Alfred had left on the man's body. By having Francis take him, Alfred would become no more than a shadowy fingerprint.
Take me. Take me like you took him. It ran through his mind.
Make me bleed.
Francis didn't wait long. Not bothering with his clothes for once, he hastily wrestled free from the trousers that covered his already throbbing arousal. The respective and offensive garment was carelessly thrown on the wooden floor, joining England's previously tossed away pants as well. Lubrication wasn't needed. As far as he was concerned, he'd given Arthur enough of that. Besides, he was too impatient to waste another moment on fruitless foreplay.
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And yet, Arthur's cock was leaking with pre-cum. And yet, sweat was soaking his body while his heart was beating feverishly in his chest. And yet, his body, flamed up like a furnace, wanted more. What was more - France had never noticed it - but England's hands had freed themselves from the leather strips. He was no longer bound. Any time, and he could punch his way out of this situation.
But before that, Arthur decided to play along. Just for a bit.
“You're so tight, cheri,” France uttered admiringly, sounding hoarse. It wasn't only tight but hot. Francis' grip on Arthur's hips grew even tighter. He'd forgotten how wonderful this felt.
“Will you start moving or are we to remain like this till the end of time?” Arthur suddenly spoke out, voice coming out firm. Firmer than France had expected it to. But he shook his head. He should have remembered. This was England - and he'd always been strong. In some way, even impenetrable.
“You English are so -”
“Insufferable?” Arthur helpfully added. And then - much to Francis surprise - tore himself away from France. He winced a bit as he felt the other's man cock, which had still been deeply seated within him this, leave his anus. His eyes could see Francis' reddened penis now, red and throbbing. England thought it nearly pitiable. He felt pride swell within him. After all, he'd done this. Made Francis lower himself like this. Yes, he could see that France was half mad with want. He smiled. Then, Arthur, using his hands as support, sat down on the desk. Then, his eyes met France's. This was an open challenge.
“Do it now - or I'll pummel you to death.”
“Wicked.” France licked his lips. But he wasn't pleased. When England had pushed him away, France nearly felt like one of those flighty poets, and he'd have used the phrase “banished from paradise”, only that he hadn't even had the chance to taste sanctuary. England had pushed him away before that. Feeling angry, he spanked Arthur's ass and entered him even more ruthlessly than he'd done before.
Arthur hissed out - the intrusion was more forceful than he'd expected. If he'd not been relaxed, it would have felt like being-England preferred not think about it. Because it wasn't worth it. Instead, he focused on shifting his hips and forcing France to move. And move he did.
“It's funny how I -”
Arthur looked up at him with a hateful look and Francis' words died down his throat. So yes, he'd had America. America had begged him, pleaded him to take him with all his skill (Francis had enough of that skill that made men groan and women scream wantonly).
“Don't talk about Alfred-” England hissed out, anger flaring up in him. His fingernails scraped down Francis' back and he spat on his face. “You don't own him.”
France, still pounding in and out of England's body, only smirked. He wiped the spit out of his face with his hand, smirk never leaving his face. “No. He's not mine.”
England's green eyes clouded with distrust. He could already sense it on France's lips - he'd bring out another slap on his ego. He'd not have it. He'd not have it. Arthur prayed that something akin to a miracle would happen. Like Francis suddenly becoming mute. Or him developing something like compassion. Sadly, and much to England's chagrin, that never occurred.
Then again, it wasn't like Arthur had ever showed compassion towards him. At least, France would have said so. Therefore, he didn't shut up, didn't hold his tongue. Even if he knew that this was hurting Arthur.
“But he was never yours, either.”
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“No,” France said, pulling his manhood out of Arthur's twitching hole before slamming back in with cruel swiftness,” and you were never his either. You ... belong ... to ... “
Me, he wanted to say. You belong to me, me..
But that would have been baring his soul and heart to Arthur. And Arthur, even if his heart was breaking into pieces for another, would have not shown him any mercy. Even if Arthur was under him now - legs wrapped around his waist and body arching upwards - he would never be his. France could have this. He could pound into him over and over again until they both came undone.
And yet, he'd never have what he really wanted. Because he only had England temporarily. Worst thing was Arthur didn't even know how much Francis needed - craved - for his attention. Because if he had, he would never allowed Francis to take him like this. So yes, Arthur allowed himself to be fucked- allowed him all this, but that was all.
I'm nothing to Arthur
The sickening realisation poured over Francis like hot candle-wax, seeping into his skin with poisonous venom. He shuddered. If it hadn't been for the pleasure - the mind-numbing heat and tightness of Arthur - he would have cried. He wasn't going to last long. He could feel England's walls clenching around his cock. Arthur was moaning as well, and it was not beautiful. They were more grunts than moans too, but it was at least a reaction.
Arthur's toes curled. The desk was shaking underneath him. France pulled out, then entered him again. In and out. The vicious cycle continued. All Arthur could do was gasp. Sickening - to him, this was utterly sickening - pleasure filled his body, starting somewhere in his stomach and spreading over his body like a fever.
This wasn't about Alfred anymore. Maybe it was, but another part of it was about -
England didn't really know what it was. Maybe, this made him feel better about himself. After all, it wasn't lost on him that France desired him in one way or the other. He doubted that the man felt anything like love for him. Yet, it wasn't like he didn't know that Francis wanted to possess him. So, he gave him just that, gave him a taste of what it meant to own him. Only to mock him about it later (he'd spit in his face, tear his lungs out later on. Oh yes, he would).
Because England would pay him back for it. For humiliating him like this.
Even it was flattering. Flattering to have this being done to him. As much as it was sickening. Arthur knew that, once the haze passed by, he'd hate himself for this. He knew that he would spend hours repenting this. Then, this was what Arthur wanted. A reason to hate Francis even more. A reason to hate himself even more. It was with that on his mind that Arthur came, screaming all the while. During that time, he didn't even notice that tears were streaming down his face.
Oh, Alfred.
Francis did. An impulse made him want to kiss the tears away, but then he understood. Or better, he heard Arthur mouth those two words. Of course, Francis thought. Of course.
It's not as if I could break him that easily.
It was over. Francis pulled out, leaving part of his semen inside of Arthur. His stomach was covered with the fruit of his labour - England had come all over him. France wiped the cum away with a napkin, which he'd gotten as present from one of the women he'd wooed at court once.
He didn't even bother to look up at Arthur. Arthur wasn't looking at him, anyway. He heard the shuffle of clothes and an awkward cough. Evidently, the other man was dressing up, trying to forget what had just happened. Francis swallowed. His throat felt awfully dry. When his eyes met Arthur's - briefly, he saw with perfect clarity how things stood between them.
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And yet, he knew that Arthur - obstinate Arthur - wouldn't change.
In the end, Francis knew he'd not gained anything.
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I'll have to apologise for any remaining errors as well as the goofs I made posting this here. I'm dead-tired. I thank the person who looked this over for me! Anything she missed is solely my fault since it solely means I suck at proofreading =_=. I don't know what to say about this. It's my longest fill and I'm nervous about this?
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DAAAAAAAMN
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XDDD
Thank you for commenting!
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Believe it or not, I woke up this morning and I thought, "Maybe I'll see my request filled today, who knows?" and then THIS.
Word can't express how I love you ANON. I love every bit of this, the sex, the emotions, their reactions OH MY GOD.
*worships*
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Sorry for the fangirl-like reaction, but you are the one I have to thank for coming up with this prompt!
I had to fill this. And I really love you for making this piece possible! And I'm so happy you like this - I was so worried you wouldn't.
Thank you! Truly thank you!
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Good job~
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