Re: A Time of Amnesty and Grace [6/7]
anonymous
May 18 2009, 23:11:26 UTC
Arthur turns in Francis’ arms and kisses him, letting Francis lead him to the bed and pull him down onto the sheets on top of him.
Arthur lets his hands roam, takes care to keep his touch feather-light and ticklish. In earlier days, it drove Francis to thrashing and cursing; now he feels only trembles in the muscle under soft, pale skin.
He frowns and kisses harder, trying to draw reactions that he feels he deserves, that he’s earned. No such luck. Francis lies still and lets Arthur touch him.
Arthur changes tactics, kisses across Francis’ cheek and down his neck with an open mouth. “Tell me,” he hisses into that neck. “Tell me what you want, Francis.”
He feels Francis’ throat jump as his breath hitches, but otherwise remains silent. Arthur lifts his head and looks into Francis’ face.
“Tell me,” he demands, his hands coming up to grab Francis’ shoulders. “Tell me. Anything. Tell me what you like. Tell me to stop. Please, Francis, say something.”
But Francis’ eyes don’t open, hidden behind dark lashes and squeezed eyelids. Those lips turn white with pressing; Francis isn’t enjoying but enduring.
Arthur feels his eyes crinkle and he gives into his anger, weak, giving Francis’ shoulders one good shake.
“Is this what you want?” he asks, his voice high and frustrated. “Do you want me to conquer you? Do you want me to hurt you or use you or -”
Something wet and warm and clear splatters on Francis’ cheek; blue eyes flutter open in surprise. Another drop lands, and Arthur realizes he’s crying, despairing. His eyes slide shut and he lets his breath hitch and his body shake with sobs. I was wrong, he thinks, I was wrong to believe that -
It takes Arthur a moment to feel the fingers on his face, and his eyes flutter open, stinging with tears.
Francis smiles up at him, not small and polite but wide and thankful and beautiful. Something in his eyes is alive, so alive, becoming stronger with every second.
Arthur’s mesmerized, unable to look away as Francis cups the back of his head, pulls Arthur into the crook of his neck. “I like being licked here,” he whispers, breath hot and soft as Francis’ tongue teases Arthur’s ear.
Arthur’s brain starts to work and respond, slow, lethargic.
“Yes,” he murmurs, grazing Francis’ neck with the tip of his tongue. “Yes.”
It’s summer, so naturally it’s hot, but the air still feels warm as they shuck their clothes off, as Arthur follows Francis’ directions and kisses, bites, licks wherever the other asks, over here, there right there -ow not so hard, stupid bastard, leave it to the Anglais to be so unrefined.
Arthur swallows the shards slicing his throat and turns Francis’ swears into gasps and sighs as he fucks him, slow and hard and steady, and runs his thumb over Francis’ lower lip. He looks at Francis’ face, the closed eyes, the parted mouth, and says welcome back with his entire body.
They only pause once when Francis opens his eyes with a gasp and looks at Arthur with a wide, confused expression. Arthur blinks, looks down between them and sees the hand resting right on the center of Francis’ chest, feels the rapid, rhythmic thud of Francis’ heart.
His eyes quirk back up to look at Francis, his cheeks flushed and his hands clumsy and awkward.
Francis’ lips curve upward, teasing, gentle. A long-fingered, soft hand clasps over one of Arthur’s own. “Yours,” he says.
It’s hot out. Arthur uses that heat, lets it burn his skin as he gives Francis a lazy, enthusiastic, returned kiss. ___
“Arthur,” Francis whispers, after, as they sleep turned away from one another on principle.
“Mmmmn.”
“Arthur!”
“What?! Gh, stupid frog, m’ tryin’ t’ sleep….”
“…My hair.”
“What ‘bout it?”
“I said I want to grow it out again.”
“…Ah.”
“Would you like that?”
Arthur snorts and shuts his eyes. “Do whatever you bloody want,” he mutters, closing his eyes. “I’m not your maid.”
Silence. Francis shifts, presses his own back to Arthur’s.
Re: A Time of Amnesty and Grace [7/7]
anonymous
May 18 2009, 23:12:44 UTC
___
March 2008
The years pass, their relationship goes up and down. This is one of their better years, and they sit together and watch London’s sunset from the castle, sipping wine together on the balcony.
“Y’know we’re probably going to start arguing again,” Arthur warns. “Even though we’re supposed to be getting along better and all that bollocks.”
“My dear, I do not think our relationship can be healthy otherwise.”
“Look, there’s healthy relationship arguing, and then there’s starting foreplay off with insults. I think they are two different things.”
“You have a problem with my method of getting you all hot and bothered?”
“It’s not exactly polite to tell your bedmate that they kiss like the Blarney Stone!”
Francis snorts, and then laughs. Arthur takes the opportunity to sneak a glance at him - he is lovely in vivid twilight, his skin a bit pale from the cool breezes, tears of laughter beading at the corner of his eyes.
Arthur frowns when he sees the dark ribbon bound into Francis’ hair. It brings back memories of a more broken, silent Francis, even when longer wisps escape and brush the nape of his neck.
“D’you have to wear that thing?”
Francis looks at him and raises an eyebrow.
“That ribbon. It brings back…bad memories.”
Francis watches him for a moment, smiling and thoughtful. He waits until Arthur blushes and shifts in place before standing and making his way over to the balcony rail.
“Would you like to take it out?”
Two fingers take the edge and tug before Arthur answers; the ribbon gives, slides from his hair in a quick, fluid movement.
Arthur doesn’t see Francis let the ribbon go; his eyes widen as he watches Francis’ hair whip around his head. It’s not merely long, it’s longer, wavy and fluid and bright.
Arthur thinks of sunsets on wide fields, of Francis looking back at him with confident eyes, a cocky smirk, and hair blowing free and wild in the wind. He feels the image burn away for this; for Francis smirking down at him, eyes half-lidded, back straight and strong as his hair settles on and a little past his shoulders, longer and silkier than he’s ever seen it.
Francis holds out a hand, and Arthur feels powerless to do anything but take it, let Francis pull him from his chair. Their arms twine as they kiss, as Arthur lets Francis draw his tongue from his shy, dumbfounded mouth.
And Arthur understands the final piece now, the key to helping Francis heal. It’s not enough to possess Francis, to reclaim what World War II stole. It’s in belonging to Francis that the overpowering want fizzles out and dies, feels like something almost normal.
Francis bends his neck and kisses the edge of Arthur’s mouth, letting him feel the smile. “Mine,” Francis says.
Arthur smiles and wraps his arms around Francis’ neck; fingers thread through golden hair as he pulls Francis’ head down to kiss his ear.
“Yours.” ___
This was…hard to write, and I don’t think I got it exactly right. I tried to make it work, I really did.
Historical notes:
The Épuration légale: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vichy_France#.C3.89puration_l.C3.A9gale. This is where you’ll find the four stages I used to sort of illustrate Francis’ actions and gradual healing in this fic. It also explains shorthaired!France; during the first wave, the épuration sauvage was a time where prostitutes who had or were suspected of being Nazi consorts had their heads shaved as public humiliation.
Admittedly I didn't have in mind something nearly this complex when I banged out the silly prompt, but you, writernon, you. sdlaj;sljdLSJFLSJdkjfdkljfs you've taken this concept and run with it above and beyond and--and I'm just totally speechless with awe right now. This is the fic I've always wanted for this pairing and WWII, no contest, no exaggeration, and you've done it.
OP is the happiest person on the entire Internet right now. This is immutable fact.
I hope you'll excuse the total incoherence, I'm going to have to come back and leave a better review in a few days once I've reread this a couple dozen more times.
In the meantime, I LOVE YOU, ACCEPT MY PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE OR AT LEAST A DIAMOND OF EPIC PROPORTIONS, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS MASTERPIECE, and I have some inkling of who you might be and I do believe you've also written my other two favorite France/England fics in the fandom.
I'm so happy you enjoyed it - this took several days to write, and I had to go over and edit it once because I didn't feel it ready. Thank you for giving such a good prompt. No diamond rings are necessary - I was happy to do it.
I recognized who you were from your comment on the previous fill. Hint: If your gut tells you something, it's probably right ;)
Re: A Time of Amnesty and Grace [7/7]
anonymous
May 19 2009, 03:39:37 UTC
O-oh my god, I don't even know what to say to this. I absolutely loved this. Absolutely, absolutely loved it. I really like the limited perspective we get from Arthur, and his struggle to deal with this and to understand. I really love the descriptions of Francis through his eyes -- as infuriating and beautiful at the same time, and the sharp contrast of post-WWII France. I think I especially love the way this captures what I love about Arthur and Francis's relationship-- that sort of mutual fixation over history that has the possibility of developing into something more. So, yes, I really, really loved this.
Re: A Time of Amnesty and Grace [7/7]
anonymous
May 19 2009, 19:26:48 UTC
Puck was very interesting to write. He had a habit of causing trouble for humans, even when he meant to help them. I suppose he felt some vindication in calling Arthur out on his screw-up. xDDD
Re: A Time of Amnesty and Grace [7/7]
anonymous
May 19 2009, 05:53:26 UTC
Oh wow, authornon. This fic left me speechless right after I finished it. This is most definitely one of the best fics I've had the pleasure of reading in this meme. Thanks a lot for posting.
Re: A Time of Amnesty and Grace [7/7]
anonymous
May 19 2009, 06:05:37 UTC
Thank you for sharing, this was absolutely beautiful and heartbreaking. I love how you tied together the motifs from beginning to end, you are truly gifted at writing. *goes back to re-read*
Re: A Time of Amnesty and Grace [7/7]
anonymous
May 19 2009, 19:33:24 UTC
I actually had a lot of fun with this piece, even though it was hard to write. There are so many layers of meaning, and you have to get them just right.
Re: A Time of Amnesty and Grace [7/7]
anonymous
May 19 2009, 22:48:44 UTC
.........I.
I-I wish I had words to express how much I adored this. It's so...so...so..perfect.
I am truly sorry for such a lame comment. orz I really can't think of anything else to say right now, except maybe for a "thank you so much for writing this" and a "this was simply and utterly brilliant".
Really, Author!anon. I'm obviously not the requester, but Thank you so much.♥
Arthur lets his hands roam, takes care to keep his touch feather-light and ticklish. In earlier days, it drove Francis to thrashing and cursing; now he feels only trembles in the muscle under soft, pale skin.
He frowns and kisses harder, trying to draw reactions that he feels he deserves, that he’s earned. No such luck. Francis lies still and lets Arthur touch him.
Arthur changes tactics, kisses across Francis’ cheek and down his neck with an open mouth. “Tell me,” he hisses into that neck. “Tell me what you want, Francis.”
He feels Francis’ throat jump as his breath hitches, but otherwise remains silent. Arthur lifts his head and looks into Francis’ face.
“Tell me,” he demands, his hands coming up to grab Francis’ shoulders. “Tell me. Anything. Tell me what you like. Tell me to stop. Please, Francis, say something.”
But Francis’ eyes don’t open, hidden behind dark lashes and squeezed eyelids. Those lips turn white with pressing; Francis isn’t enjoying but enduring.
Arthur feels his eyes crinkle and he gives into his anger, weak, giving Francis’ shoulders one good shake.
“Is this what you want?” he asks, his voice high and frustrated. “Do you want me to conquer you? Do you want me to hurt you or use you or -”
Something wet and warm and clear splatters on Francis’ cheek; blue eyes flutter open in surprise. Another drop lands, and Arthur realizes he’s crying, despairing. His eyes slide shut and he lets his breath hitch and his body shake with sobs. I was wrong, he thinks, I was wrong to believe that -
It takes Arthur a moment to feel the fingers on his face, and his eyes flutter open, stinging with tears.
Francis smiles up at him, not small and polite but wide and thankful and beautiful. Something in his eyes is alive, so alive, becoming stronger with every second.
Arthur’s mesmerized, unable to look away as Francis cups the back of his head, pulls Arthur into the crook of his neck. “I like being licked here,” he whispers, breath hot and soft as Francis’ tongue teases Arthur’s ear.
Arthur’s brain starts to work and respond, slow, lethargic.
“Yes,” he murmurs, grazing Francis’ neck with the tip of his tongue. “Yes.”
It’s summer, so naturally it’s hot, but the air still feels warm as they shuck their clothes off, as Arthur follows Francis’ directions and kisses, bites, licks wherever the other asks, over here, there right there -ow not so hard, stupid bastard, leave it to the Anglais to be so unrefined.
Arthur swallows the shards slicing his throat and turns Francis’ swears into gasps and sighs as he fucks him, slow and hard and steady, and runs his thumb over Francis’ lower lip. He looks at Francis’ face, the closed eyes, the parted mouth, and says welcome back with his entire body.
They only pause once when Francis opens his eyes with a gasp and looks at Arthur with a wide, confused expression. Arthur blinks, looks down between them and sees the hand resting right on the center of Francis’ chest, feels the rapid, rhythmic thud of Francis’ heart.
His eyes quirk back up to look at Francis, his cheeks flushed and his hands clumsy and awkward.
Francis’ lips curve upward, teasing, gentle. A long-fingered, soft hand clasps over one of Arthur’s own. “Yours,” he says.
It’s hot out. Arthur uses that heat, lets it burn his skin as he gives Francis a lazy, enthusiastic, returned kiss.
___
“Arthur,” Francis whispers, after, as they sleep turned away from one another on principle.
“Mmmmn.”
“Arthur!”
“What?! Gh, stupid frog, m’ tryin’ t’ sleep….”
“…My hair.”
“What ‘bout it?”
“I said I want to grow it out again.”
“…Ah.”
“Would you like that?”
Arthur snorts and shuts his eyes. “Do whatever you bloody want,” he mutters, closing his eyes. “I’m not your maid.”
Silence. Francis shifts, presses his own back to Arthur’s.
“Arthur.”
“WHAT?”
“…Thank you.”
“…Hmph.” You’re welcome.
Reply
March 2008
The years pass, their relationship goes up and down. This is one of their better years, and they sit together and watch London’s sunset from the castle, sipping wine together on the balcony.
“Y’know we’re probably going to start arguing again,” Arthur warns. “Even though we’re supposed to be getting along better and all that bollocks.”
“My dear, I do not think our relationship can be healthy otherwise.”
“Look, there’s healthy relationship arguing, and then there’s starting foreplay off with insults. I think they are two different things.”
“You have a problem with my method of getting you all hot and bothered?”
“It’s not exactly polite to tell your bedmate that they kiss like the Blarney Stone!”
Francis snorts, and then laughs. Arthur takes the opportunity to sneak a glance at him - he is lovely in vivid twilight, his skin a bit pale from the cool breezes, tears of laughter beading at the corner of his eyes.
Arthur frowns when he sees the dark ribbon bound into Francis’ hair. It brings back memories of a more broken, silent Francis, even when longer wisps escape and brush the nape of his neck.
“D’you have to wear that thing?”
Francis looks at him and raises an eyebrow.
“That ribbon. It brings back…bad memories.”
Francis watches him for a moment, smiling and thoughtful. He waits until Arthur blushes and shifts in place before standing and making his way over to the balcony rail.
“Would you like to take it out?”
Two fingers take the edge and tug before Arthur answers; the ribbon gives, slides from his hair in a quick, fluid movement.
Arthur doesn’t see Francis let the ribbon go; his eyes widen as he watches Francis’ hair whip around his head. It’s not merely long, it’s longer, wavy and fluid and bright.
Arthur thinks of sunsets on wide fields, of Francis looking back at him with confident eyes, a cocky smirk, and hair blowing free and wild in the wind. He feels the image burn away for this; for Francis smirking down at him, eyes half-lidded, back straight and strong as his hair settles on and a little past his shoulders, longer and silkier than he’s ever seen it.
Francis holds out a hand, and Arthur feels powerless to do anything but take it, let Francis pull him from his chair. Their arms twine as they kiss, as Arthur lets Francis draw his tongue from his shy, dumbfounded mouth.
And Arthur understands the final piece now, the key to helping Francis heal. It’s not enough to possess Francis, to reclaim what World War II stole. It’s in belonging to Francis that the overpowering want fizzles out and dies, feels like something almost normal.
Francis bends his neck and kisses the edge of Arthur’s mouth, letting him feel the smile. “Mine,” Francis says.
Arthur smiles and wraps his arms around Francis’ neck; fingers thread through golden hair as he pulls Francis’ head down to kiss his ear.
“Yours.”
___
This was…hard to write, and I don’t think I got it exactly right. I tried to make it work, I really did.
Historical notes:
The Épuration légale: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vichy_France#.C3.89puration_l.C3.A9gale. This is where you’ll find the four stages I used to sort of illustrate Francis’ actions and gradual healing in this fic. It also explains shorthaired!France; during the first wave, the épuration sauvage was a time where prostitutes who had or were suspected of being Nazi consorts had their heads shaved as public humiliation.
More info in it can be found here: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%C3%89puration_l%C3%A9gale.
The title comes from the fourth stage, which was when amnesties and graces were given.
That’s it. Thank you for reading, and I hope you all enjoyed that, at least a little.
Reply
I--
This--
Admittedly I didn't have in mind something nearly this complex when I banged out the silly prompt, but you, writernon, you. sdlaj;sljdLSJFLSJdkjfdkljfs you've taken this concept and run with it above and beyond and--and I'm just totally speechless with awe right now. This is the fic I've always wanted for this pairing and WWII, no contest, no exaggeration, and you've done it.
OP is the happiest person on the entire Internet right now. This is immutable fact.
I hope you'll excuse the total incoherence, I'm going to have to come back and leave a better review in a few days once I've reread this a couple dozen more times.
In the meantime, I LOVE YOU, ACCEPT MY PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE OR AT LEAST A DIAMOND OF EPIC PROPORTIONS, THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS MASTERPIECE, and I have some inkling of who you might be and I do believe you've also written my other two favorite France/England fics in the fandom.
Reply
I recognized who you were from your comment on the previous fill. Hint: If your gut tells you something, it's probably right ;)
Reply
Thank you anon
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I'm very happy that you enjoyed this, thank you!
Reply
Reply
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Thank you for reading, commenternon!
Reply
I-I wish I had words to express how much I adored this. It's so...so...so..perfect.
I am truly sorry for such a lame comment. orz I really can't think of anything else to say right now, except maybe for a "thank you so much for writing this" and a "this was simply and utterly brilliant".
Really, Author!anon. I'm obviously not the requester, but Thank you so much.♥
Reply
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