You're So Foxy (France/England, Highschool AU)
Title: You're So Foxy
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Pairing: France/England
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3,035
The loud, harsh, carefree sounds of youth trickled out the door, too many people trying to shove their way out of one exit, until finally, after a distinctly raw, primal struggle-one should not underestimate the determination of teens when a promise of a hot meal was awaiting them-- all was quiet. It was lunchtime, every student’s favourite time of the day, and Arthur shut his door softly, scowling as he realized one of his more neglectful students had left his binder in his class before going to lunch. He put the offensive white binder (doodled with football players holding guns and dinosaurs, Arthur noted with a snort of amusement) on the back counter and settled in his chair, opening a drawer to reveal his lunch, a simple sandwich and his cup of coffee he’d just refilled. It smelled inviting, aromatic, and he smiled, despite the essays he was settling down to read. He loved seeing his students write about what they were reading-it was an important thing to do in his Literature class, he thought-but sometimes he just wasn’t in the mood to peruse essays. He would never get done if he didn’t do it now, however.
Just as he had opened up his grade book, red pen in hand, his door was flicked open carelessly, swinging back and giving way to someone Arthur had expected in the dreading way you expect the apocalypse: Francis Bonnefoy.
“Oh bloody-Francis!” He glared at Francis from behind his desk, crossing his ankles and pouting. His lunch was effectively ruined.
“Bonjour, mon ami~” Francis kicked the door shut and sat on the edge of his desk, legs crossed and fingers tapping out a secret rhythm Arthur did not know. He smirked at Arthur and lounged across his desk like a cat, arm hanging limply off the side and taking the sandwich, examining it closely. Arthur was mildly surprised, since Francis did not appreciate the finery of his cooking like he should, and then wasn’t so surprised anymore (albeit a little cross) when Francis dropped it into the nearby wastebasket. He slapped Francis on the arm and demanded an explanation.
“The sight is making me ill, the sight of your food,” he mused, taking a sip of Arthur’s coffee and handing it back to Arthur, who set it aside behind his computer so it wouldn’t spill if he had to strangle Francis at any point in their interaction.
“My day so far,” he began, as if Arthur cared (which he surely didn’t!), twirling his hair about his finger, in an attempt to look coy, “has been dreadfully boring. A shame, I do not deserve it.” Lying on his stomach now, Francis’ legs kicked the air lazily, looking more like a mischievous housecat than a respected teacher at a gifted private school. He flicked the edges of an essay, resting his chin in his palm.
“My day so far,” Arthur snapped, prodding Francis’ head with his pen, who promptly slapped it away, looking hurt, “was going just fine until you pranced into my room, you Frog.” He reached for another pen, grabbing it and trying to shove Francis off his desk so he could begin his work.
“I have improved it, haven’t I?” Francis flipped his hair and sat up, craning his neck and shifting forward to kiss Arthur’s ear, starting to kiss down his neck except Arthur shoved his face away, mouth set into a crooked grimace.
“No! You know we aren’t allowed. And besides, I have work to do.”
“Arthur always has work to do!” Francis threw his hands up in mock-disgust and let them fall to his sides as he slipped off the desk, moving around to sit in Arthur’s lap; he was promptly knocked off again, landing with a very stiff ‘oomph’ sound, his ass colliding with the hard linoleum. He dusted himself off, making huffy sounds of displeasure.
“Franchement, Arthur. You are very rude. These are new.”
“All of your clothes are new.”
“Unlike yours, cheri.”
“Kindly shut your mouth.”
“I shall, ah, kill two birds with one stone then. I have grown tired of your mean-spirited voice,” he said in a clipped tone. Francis pinned Arthur’s wrists at the arms of his chair and kissed him solidly on the mouth, creeping into his lap and sucking at his bottom lip. Arthur grumbled, squirming around, but Francis saw this as no more than an invitation to gyrate against Arthur, crumbling Arthur's resolve for a moment as he rocked back, slipping his arms around Francis' neck and fisting two hands into his hair.
"Haah...bastard..." Arthur felt Francis grin against their kiss and let him slip his tongue into Arthur’s mouth, while Arthur unfastened Francis’ grey trousers. Francis stood up, letting his pants slide to his ankles and stepped out of them, pushing them aside as he pulled Arthur onto the ground with him, pulling his tie in a manner that was both cliché and incredibly sexy, at least to Arthur. Arthur avoided touching Francis’ legs, since he was not the smoothest-shaven man in the world, but smacked his thigh playfully as he pulled Francis into his lap, grinning as widely as the Frenchman now.
“You English are so perverted,” Francis commented offhandedly, nibbling on Arthur’s knuckles as he sucked on three British fingers.
“Hah. And who rolled around on my desk like a whore? Who rutted against me in my lap? That was not an Englishman,” Arthur retorted, letting Francis unzip his pants, even if he cursed under his breath at the antagonizing slow pace Francis set up.
“You are right. An Englishman couldn’t be as sexy as I am.” Francis threw his head back, pushing hair out his face with a flick of his head, and returned to giving Arthur as many hickeys as he could without putting them in a direct line of sight. Arthur groaned, gripping the leg of his desk as he jerked his hips into Francis’, desperate for more friction.
Tap, tap.
Arthur’s whole body tensed, green eyes wide.
Taptaptaptaptaptaptap
The knocking became more insistent and now Arthur could hear a foot tapping against the linoleum. He swore loudly and kicked Francis in the chest, pushing him off and running to get the door and fix his collar and tie simultaneously.
“Oh, what a fun sight they will come in on,” Francis cooed from behind him, and Arthur realized with a wince and a glare at Francis that he was sitting on his desk again, naked from the waist down, legs crossed-- and it was not a winning combination.
“Conceal that immediately, you arse!”
“Make me,” Francis challenged, uncrossing his legs to reveal more than Arthur would ever want anyone to see. He made a frustrated garble of a noise and ran back to grab Francis by the wrist, ignoring the knocking as he shoved Francis under his desk, sliding his pants under too.
“Dress yourself!” His desk was enclosed, so the space from his mid-torso down was covered by the metal surface. There wasn’t really enough room for a Francis and Arthur’s legs to be comfortable, but sacrifices had to be made. Zipping his trousers up, he straightened his hair and opened the door to see a very bored looking blonde boy, tapping his Converse angrily.
“Yo! It took you way too long to answer. What are you doing in here? You’re way too lame to have, like, a party or to be playing a video game or something cool, Captain Kirk,” the boy teased, pushing past Arthur and looking around.
“Alfred,” Arthur spat, mouth set in a very firmly set frown, hands clenched; there were few things he hated more than nicknames. Yes, he had been a naval captain, yes his last name was Kirkland, and yes he realized the American population on a whole found it very amusing there was a ‘Captain Kirkland’. That did not stop him from hating Alfred Jones call him ‘Captain Kirk’. It didn’t show respect to his teacher. He sighed, arms crossed as he scowled at Alfred through the thick jungle of forehead-related facial hair that situated itself on his face; some people liked to call them ‘eyebrows’. Others knew that nothing of that mass on a human’s face could be an eyebrow, and preferred ‘forehead beards’.
“Why are you here?” Arthur sat down at his desk, trying to forget that the two most obnoxious people in his universe were in his classroom. He looked over at the door, trying to remember to close it since Alfred never did, but noticed that it was already shut. He must have remembered for once, probably just a fluke.
“Forgot m’binder,” Alfred slurred in a bored sounding way, looting desks and cabinets with as much care as a large baboon would while looking for small insects in its fur.
“You seen it? It has, like, me, as the star quarterback of the world-except I live on the island from Jurassic Park. You ever see that movie, Captain Kirk? It’s a quality film, yep,” Alfred rambled, swinging his car keys on his finger, until they slipped off his finger and nearly collided with Arthur’s head-luckily they missed, and skidded across his back counter, knocking over a box of pens and making a large, jingling mess. Alfred was reminded of Christmas carols at first, but understood that this was not the ideal time to sing some.
“Oops,” Alfred said quietly, near whispering, and stood there; whereas Arthur, palm making contact with his face as he sunk lower in his seat, merely groaned. Francis snickered, so he kicked under the desk in hopes he found the Frenchman’s face. Arthur was only a little sad when he felt like all he caught was Francis’ sternum.
“Get your binder; it’s on the counter you just destroyed with your keys, and get out, Mr. Jones.”
“Whatcha doinnng?” Alfred ambled over to Arthur’s desk, putting his palms on the surface and leaned over to peer at his papers. Arthur was about to open his mouth to tell Alfred ‘none of your business’ when he felt his trousers unzip themselves.
No, thought Arthur, that couldn’t be right, trousers did not do that. He felt a lingering, soft caress across his thigh and fidgeted, realizing what was happening.
“N-nothing,” Arthur managed to stammer as Francis, from beneath his desk, pulled Arthur’s manhood from within his underwear (he tried not to hear Francis’ quietly mocking comment about the nature of Union Jack briefs) and stroked it gingerly, lightest touches using only the pads of his longer fingers. He tried not to make it obvious as he scoffed and leaned in for more, Alfred quirking an eyebrow.
“It looks like you have to go to the bathroom. You can go whenever you want, you know, cos you’re a teacher. It’s on your ID, Captain.”
Francis stroked harder, curling long fingers around his arousal and pumping up and down with mechanical precision, and Arthur gasped, lurching forward a little.
“Don’t-don’t call me captain, Alfred!” Arthur scolded with decidedly less harshness while he was getting a handjob under his desk, which was a natural reaction, but notable anyway, because Francis was barely touching him. Alfred shuffled on the floor, wondering what he was forgetting when he brightened, holding up a finger as if to say ‘Eureka!’ A person could almost see the light bulb above his head as he rummaged through his binder, which he didn’t remember Alfred actually retrieving, but he had been pre-occupied and slammed it on Arthur’s desk carelessly, leafing through the pages.
Francis removed his hand from Arthur’s throbbing erection, leaving Arthur flushed with a whiny sound to his voice as he bickered with Alfred.
“Aha! I found it,” Alfred declared triumphantly, holding up a double-stapled essay. Arthur let out a whimper as he felt Francis’ tongue on his length, licking from the base to the tip and back down again, making Arthur lean into the desk, almost doubling over at this new wave of pleasure (or torture, if you would like).
“G-good…just set it down and-“ Arthur pointed meekly to the pile of essays, spread across his desk now, thanks to Francis rolling about on his workspace earlier, and was going to instruct Alfred further when Francis took the majority of his erection into his mouth, sucking lightly-Arthur could just feel the smirk on his face, so self-gratifying like he had made some major victory.
“Yeaaah…are you sure you’re okay? You gotta fever?” Alfred leaned across the desk and smacked his hand against Arthur’s forehead, an inquisitive expression on his face. Arthur did not appreciate his sentiments and instead only groaned and shivered in his seat, gripping the arms of his chair as tightly as possible.
“No! Please,” Arthur moaned, mouth falling open as Francis started sucking harder, bolts of pleasure running up his spine, “Just…leave. I will…I am sure it is ffiine-ohhh….” Arthur was cut short as Francis took the rest of Arthur in his mouth, chuckling again. Arthur’s eyes were dark with arousal as he tried to maintain respectable eye contact with Alfred.
Alfred quirked an eyebrow, shouldering his backpack and inching out of the room, obviously just a tad unsettled by Arthur’s behavior.
“Yessir, I am just…I’ll just, like, leave…I guess….see…bye.” Alfred shuffled quickly out of the room, Converse shuffling across the floor as he escaped, shutting the door soundly. Arthur waited until he heard the sound of Alfred strolling down the hall, and then he pushed his chair away from the desk, staring angrily at Francis who was looking very proud of himself indeed.
“You,” Arthur snarled, watching as Francis his way up to press his palms against Arthur’s chalkboard and pinning Arthur in his grasp.
“Moi,” Francis chirped, rubbing his hips against Arthur’s, sparking a friction that cleared Arthur’s mind from any previous doubt, and grinding back against Arthur kissing Francis, letting the Frenchman slide his trousers down and pull Arthur onto the desk, pushing him on his back.
“No, you git, I have-“
“It will be fine, I promise, mon cheri.” He snatched a bottle of Arthur’s hand lotion, unscented, and squeezed a dime-sized amount in his palm, rubbing his fingers in it and wiping the rest on Arthur, who made a snorting sound of disapproval. Papers shuffled, breath was husky, and there was scuffling sound, presumably from Arthur’s feet on the desk, quiet and tense and weighted. It was their soundtrack, familiar and taboo all at once. One of Arthur’s legs was propped up on the desk, bent and giving him a casually bored appearance, as if he had been strewn there and hadn’t given the energy to moving; his other leg dangled from the edge of the desk, swaying back and forth as he tried not to look needy, blushing with want; his eyes stared at Francis, greedily and green and carnal, sinful above all else.
Francis kissed Arthur’s thigh as he pushed two fingers in, giggling into his leg as Arthur grunted, voicing his discomfort as always but refusing to tell Francis that he was hurting him. Francis knew, though, he always knew because Francis knew sex above everything else, and he whispered something unintelligible but comforting because it sounded that way, and Arthur relaxed, tried to stop shaking; he even let out a little mewl when Francis moved his fingers in and out a little, pressing and scissoring and fussing. Arthur knew it was wrong, and he knew what could happen at any moment-he just didn’t care anymore.
“Ah, we have done it before, it will be fine, cheri,” Francis assured, pulling his fingers out (much to Arthur’s chagrin) and pressed something much larger, harder against Arthur’s entrance.
“Fuckinghurryupfrog,” Arthur stammered, grinding his hips off the desk and tensing up, leg trembling a little from what he wanted and what he was definitely not getting right now. Francis chortled, stroking his knee as he thrust in, smiling at the sweet sound Arthur made (something similar to a scream, trailing off into a moan) and felt an always-wonderful, always memorable tightness around his erection; hot and erotic and sensual enough to cause a stray, lilting moan of pleasure to stray from Francis’ mouth, as he grabbed Arthur’s cock, breath husky, his hand his arm his whole body coursing with newfound need, and began to thrust into Arthur, letting him throw his head back and make as much noise as he wanted; Francis wasn’t exactly quiet either. Dirty blonde spatters of hair pooled around Arthur’s head as he probably wrinkled more than a few essays. Francis pounded into him, his own wavy hair spilling around his shoulders, surging with tension as he slammed into Arthur again, arching his back into his lover, curved perfectly as he came, sounding a choking groan riding out his orgasm inside Arthur, panting below him, body covered in sweat and sin and need.
Francis leaned over, stomach brushing Arthur’s manhood as he kissed him, sweetly with a hint of tiredness but most overtones of gratitude. He caressed Arthur’s cock, squeezed it and smiled as Arthur’s eyes widened and he cried out into their kiss, throwing his arms around Francis and jerking his hips forward, splattering both their chests with his substance.
As Arthur relaxed, strewn about his desk, sighing in sated contentment, he looked lazily towards Francis, who was gaping at the door, pants in hand, covering his vital regions. Arthur froze, looking towards the door.
“…Alfred?” Arthur’s mouth fell open and he fell off his desk, resulting in a flutter of papers and a loud thumping noise as he scrambled to get his clothes back on.
Francis handed him a tie as the boy just stood there, holding his essay with trembling hands.
“Alfred, when did you get here?” Arthur tried to ask in a calm, superior tone, as if he hadn’t just been naked on a desk, having anal sex with his co-worker. Finally, their third party opened his mouth, and Arthur felt even worse (it was apparently possible, although Arthur would not have believed it five minutes prior), as did Francis when he said this:
“I’m Matthew, Alfred’s brother... And I’ve been here since Al left, eh.”
/lj-cut>
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Pairing: France/England
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 3,035
The loud, harsh, carefree sounds of youth trickled out the door, too many people trying to shove their way out of one exit, until finally, after a distinctly raw, primal struggle-one should not underestimate the determination of teens when a promise of a hot meal was awaiting them-- all was quiet. It was lunchtime, every student’s favourite time of the day, and Arthur shut his door softly, scowling as he realized one of his more neglectful students had left his binder in his class before going to lunch. He put the offensive white binder (doodled with football players holding guns and dinosaurs, Arthur noted with a snort of amusement) on the back counter and settled in his chair, opening a drawer to reveal his lunch, a simple sandwich and his cup of coffee he’d just refilled. It smelled inviting, aromatic, and he smiled, despite the essays he was settling down to read. He loved seeing his students write about what they were reading-it was an important thing to do in his Literature class, he thought-but sometimes he just wasn’t in the mood to peruse essays. He would never get done if he didn’t do it now, however.
Just as he had opened up his grade book, red pen in hand, his door was flicked open carelessly, swinging back and giving way to someone Arthur had expected in the dreading way you expect the apocalypse: Francis Bonnefoy.
“Oh bloody-Francis!” He glared at Francis from behind his desk, crossing his ankles and pouting. His lunch was effectively ruined.
“Bonjour, mon ami~” Francis kicked the door shut and sat on the edge of his desk, legs crossed and fingers tapping out a secret rhythm Arthur did not know. He smirked at Arthur and lounged across his desk like a cat, arm hanging limply off the side and taking the sandwich, examining it closely. Arthur was mildly surprised, since Francis did not appreciate the finery of his cooking like he should, and then wasn’t so surprised anymore (albeit a little cross) when Francis dropped it into the nearby wastebasket. He slapped Francis on the arm and demanded an explanation.
“The sight is making me ill, the sight of your food,” he mused, taking a sip of Arthur’s coffee and handing it back to Arthur, who set it aside behind his computer so it wouldn’t spill if he had to strangle Francis at any point in their interaction.
“My day so far,” he began, as if Arthur cared (which he surely didn’t!), twirling his hair about his finger, in an attempt to look coy, “has been dreadfully boring. A shame, I do not deserve it.” Lying on his stomach now, Francis’ legs kicked the air lazily, looking more like a mischievous housecat than a respected teacher at a gifted private school. He flicked the edges of an essay, resting his chin in his palm.
“My day so far,” Arthur snapped, prodding Francis’ head with his pen, who promptly slapped it away, looking hurt, “was going just fine until you pranced into my room, you Frog.” He reached for another pen, grabbing it and trying to shove Francis off his desk so he could begin his work.
“I have improved it, haven’t I?” Francis flipped his hair and sat up, craning his neck and shifting forward to kiss Arthur’s ear, starting to kiss down his neck except Arthur shoved his face away, mouth set into a crooked grimace.
“No! You know we aren’t allowed. And besides, I have work to do.”
“Arthur always has work to do!” Francis threw his hands up in mock-disgust and let them fall to his sides as he slipped off the desk, moving around to sit in Arthur’s lap; he was promptly knocked off again, landing with a very stiff ‘oomph’ sound, his ass colliding with the hard linoleum. He dusted himself off, making huffy sounds of displeasure.
“Franchement, Arthur. You are very rude. These are new.”
“All of your clothes are new.”
“Unlike yours, cheri.”
“Kindly shut your mouth.”
“I shall, ah, kill two birds with one stone then. I have grown tired of your mean-spirited voice,” he said in a clipped tone. Francis pinned Arthur’s wrists at the arms of his chair and kissed him solidly on the mouth, creeping into his lap and sucking at his bottom lip. Arthur grumbled, squirming around, but Francis saw this as no more than an invitation to gyrate against Arthur, crumbling Arthur's resolve for a moment as he rocked back, slipping his arms around Francis' neck and fisting two hands into his hair.
"Haah...bastard..." Arthur felt Francis grin against their kiss and let him slip his tongue into Arthur’s mouth, while Arthur unfastened Francis’ grey trousers. Francis stood up, letting his pants slide to his ankles and stepped out of them, pushing them aside as he pulled Arthur onto the ground with him, pulling his tie in a manner that was both cliché and incredibly sexy, at least to Arthur. Arthur avoided touching Francis’ legs, since he was not the smoothest-shaven man in the world, but smacked his thigh playfully as he pulled Francis into his lap, grinning as widely as the Frenchman now.
“You English are so perverted,” Francis commented offhandedly, nibbling on Arthur’s knuckles as he sucked on three British fingers.
“Hah. And who rolled around on my desk like a whore? Who rutted against me in my lap? That was not an Englishman,” Arthur retorted, letting Francis unzip his pants, even if he cursed under his breath at the antagonizing slow pace Francis set up.
“You are right. An Englishman couldn’t be as sexy as I am.” Francis threw his head back, pushing hair out his face with a flick of his head, and returned to giving Arthur as many hickeys as he could without putting them in a direct line of sight. Arthur groaned, gripping the leg of his desk as he jerked his hips into Francis’, desperate for more friction.
Tap, tap.
Arthur’s whole body tensed, green eyes wide.
Taptaptaptaptaptaptap
The knocking became more insistent and now Arthur could hear a foot tapping against the linoleum. He swore loudly and kicked Francis in the chest, pushing him off and running to get the door and fix his collar and tie simultaneously.
“Oh, what a fun sight they will come in on,” Francis cooed from behind him, and Arthur realized with a wince and a glare at Francis that he was sitting on his desk again, naked from the waist down, legs crossed-- and it was not a winning combination.
“Conceal that immediately, you arse!”
“Make me,” Francis challenged, uncrossing his legs to reveal more than Arthur would ever want anyone to see. He made a frustrated garble of a noise and ran back to grab Francis by the wrist, ignoring the knocking as he shoved Francis under his desk, sliding his pants under too.
“Dress yourself!” His desk was enclosed, so the space from his mid-torso down was covered by the metal surface. There wasn’t really enough room for a Francis and Arthur’s legs to be comfortable, but sacrifices had to be made. Zipping his trousers up, he straightened his hair and opened the door to see a very bored looking blonde boy, tapping his Converse angrily.
“Yo! It took you way too long to answer. What are you doing in here? You’re way too lame to have, like, a party or to be playing a video game or something cool, Captain Kirk,” the boy teased, pushing past Arthur and looking around.
“Alfred,” Arthur spat, mouth set in a very firmly set frown, hands clenched; there were few things he hated more than nicknames. Yes, he had been a naval captain, yes his last name was Kirkland, and yes he realized the American population on a whole found it very amusing there was a ‘Captain Kirkland’. That did not stop him from hating Alfred Jones call him ‘Captain Kirk’. It didn’t show respect to his teacher. He sighed, arms crossed as he scowled at Alfred through the thick jungle of forehead-related facial hair that situated itself on his face; some people liked to call them ‘eyebrows’. Others knew that nothing of that mass on a human’s face could be an eyebrow, and preferred ‘forehead beards’.
“Why are you here?” Arthur sat down at his desk, trying to forget that the two most obnoxious people in his universe were in his classroom. He looked over at the door, trying to remember to close it since Alfred never did, but noticed that it was already shut. He must have remembered for once, probably just a fluke.
“Forgot m’binder,” Alfred slurred in a bored sounding way, looting desks and cabinets with as much care as a large baboon would while looking for small insects in its fur.
“You seen it? It has, like, me, as the star quarterback of the world-except I live on the island from Jurassic Park. You ever see that movie, Captain Kirk? It’s a quality film, yep,” Alfred rambled, swinging his car keys on his finger, until they slipped off his finger and nearly collided with Arthur’s head-luckily they missed, and skidded across his back counter, knocking over a box of pens and making a large, jingling mess. Alfred was reminded of Christmas carols at first, but understood that this was not the ideal time to sing some.
“Oops,” Alfred said quietly, near whispering, and stood there; whereas Arthur, palm making contact with his face as he sunk lower in his seat, merely groaned. Francis snickered, so he kicked under the desk in hopes he found the Frenchman’s face. Arthur was only a little sad when he felt like all he caught was Francis’ sternum.
“Get your binder; it’s on the counter you just destroyed with your keys, and get out, Mr. Jones.”
“Whatcha doinnng?” Alfred ambled over to Arthur’s desk, putting his palms on the surface and leaned over to peer at his papers. Arthur was about to open his mouth to tell Alfred ‘none of your business’ when he felt his trousers unzip themselves.
No, thought Arthur, that couldn’t be right, trousers did not do that. He felt a lingering, soft caress across his thigh and fidgeted, realizing what was happening.
“N-nothing,” Arthur managed to stammer as Francis, from beneath his desk, pulled Arthur’s manhood from within his underwear (he tried not to hear Francis’ quietly mocking comment about the nature of Union Jack briefs) and stroked it gingerly, lightest touches using only the pads of his longer fingers. He tried not to make it obvious as he scoffed and leaned in for more, Alfred quirking an eyebrow.
“It looks like you have to go to the bathroom. You can go whenever you want, you know, cos you’re a teacher. It’s on your ID, Captain.”
Francis stroked harder, curling long fingers around his arousal and pumping up and down with mechanical precision, and Arthur gasped, lurching forward a little.
“Don’t-don’t call me captain, Alfred!” Arthur scolded with decidedly less harshness while he was getting a handjob under his desk, which was a natural reaction, but notable anyway, because Francis was barely touching him. Alfred shuffled on the floor, wondering what he was forgetting when he brightened, holding up a finger as if to say ‘Eureka!’ A person could almost see the light bulb above his head as he rummaged through his binder, which he didn’t remember Alfred actually retrieving, but he had been pre-occupied and slammed it on Arthur’s desk carelessly, leafing through the pages.
Francis removed his hand from Arthur’s throbbing erection, leaving Arthur flushed with a whiny sound to his voice as he bickered with Alfred.
“Aha! I found it,” Alfred declared triumphantly, holding up a double-stapled essay. Arthur let out a whimper as he felt Francis’ tongue on his length, licking from the base to the tip and back down again, making Arthur lean into the desk, almost doubling over at this new wave of pleasure (or torture, if you would like).
“G-good…just set it down and-“ Arthur pointed meekly to the pile of essays, spread across his desk now, thanks to Francis rolling about on his workspace earlier, and was going to instruct Alfred further when Francis took the majority of his erection into his mouth, sucking lightly-Arthur could just feel the smirk on his face, so self-gratifying like he had made some major victory.
“Yeaaah…are you sure you’re okay? You gotta fever?” Alfred leaned across the desk and smacked his hand against Arthur’s forehead, an inquisitive expression on his face. Arthur did not appreciate his sentiments and instead only groaned and shivered in his seat, gripping the arms of his chair as tightly as possible.
“No! Please,” Arthur moaned, mouth falling open as Francis started sucking harder, bolts of pleasure running up his spine, “Just…leave. I will…I am sure it is ffiine-ohhh….” Arthur was cut short as Francis took the rest of Arthur in his mouth, chuckling again. Arthur’s eyes were dark with arousal as he tried to maintain respectable eye contact with Alfred.
Alfred quirked an eyebrow, shouldering his backpack and inching out of the room, obviously just a tad unsettled by Arthur’s behavior.
“Yessir, I am just…I’ll just, like, leave…I guess….see…bye.” Alfred shuffled quickly out of the room, Converse shuffling across the floor as he escaped, shutting the door soundly. Arthur waited until he heard the sound of Alfred strolling down the hall, and then he pushed his chair away from the desk, staring angrily at Francis who was looking very proud of himself indeed.
“You,” Arthur snarled, watching as Francis his way up to press his palms against Arthur’s chalkboard and pinning Arthur in his grasp.
“Moi,” Francis chirped, rubbing his hips against Arthur’s, sparking a friction that cleared Arthur’s mind from any previous doubt, and grinding back against Arthur kissing Francis, letting the Frenchman slide his trousers down and pull Arthur onto the desk, pushing him on his back.
“No, you git, I have-“
“It will be fine, I promise, mon cheri.” He snatched a bottle of Arthur’s hand lotion, unscented, and squeezed a dime-sized amount in his palm, rubbing his fingers in it and wiping the rest on Arthur, who made a snorting sound of disapproval. Papers shuffled, breath was husky, and there was scuffling sound, presumably from Arthur’s feet on the desk, quiet and tense and weighted. It was their soundtrack, familiar and taboo all at once. One of Arthur’s legs was propped up on the desk, bent and giving him a casually bored appearance, as if he had been strewn there and hadn’t given the energy to moving; his other leg dangled from the edge of the desk, swaying back and forth as he tried not to look needy, blushing with want; his eyes stared at Francis, greedily and green and carnal, sinful above all else.
Francis kissed Arthur’s thigh as he pushed two fingers in, giggling into his leg as Arthur grunted, voicing his discomfort as always but refusing to tell Francis that he was hurting him. Francis knew, though, he always knew because Francis knew sex above everything else, and he whispered something unintelligible but comforting because it sounded that way, and Arthur relaxed, tried to stop shaking; he even let out a little mewl when Francis moved his fingers in and out a little, pressing and scissoring and fussing. Arthur knew it was wrong, and he knew what could happen at any moment-he just didn’t care anymore.
“Ah, we have done it before, it will be fine, cheri,” Francis assured, pulling his fingers out (much to Arthur’s chagrin) and pressed something much larger, harder against Arthur’s entrance.
“Fuckinghurryupfrog,” Arthur stammered, grinding his hips off the desk and tensing up, leg trembling a little from what he wanted and what he was definitely not getting right now. Francis chortled, stroking his knee as he thrust in, smiling at the sweet sound Arthur made (something similar to a scream, trailing off into a moan) and felt an always-wonderful, always memorable tightness around his erection; hot and erotic and sensual enough to cause a stray, lilting moan of pleasure to stray from Francis’ mouth, as he grabbed Arthur’s cock, breath husky, his hand his arm his whole body coursing with newfound need, and began to thrust into Arthur, letting him throw his head back and make as much noise as he wanted; Francis wasn’t exactly quiet either. Dirty blonde spatters of hair pooled around Arthur’s head as he probably wrinkled more than a few essays. Francis pounded into him, his own wavy hair spilling around his shoulders, surging with tension as he slammed into Arthur again, arching his back into his lover, curved perfectly as he came, sounding a choking groan riding out his orgasm inside Arthur, panting below him, body covered in sweat and sin and need.
Francis leaned over, stomach brushing Arthur’s manhood as he kissed him, sweetly with a hint of tiredness but most overtones of gratitude. He caressed Arthur’s cock, squeezed it and smiled as Arthur’s eyes widened and he cried out into their kiss, throwing his arms around Francis and jerking his hips forward, splattering both their chests with his substance.
As Arthur relaxed, strewn about his desk, sighing in sated contentment, he looked lazily towards Francis, who was gaping at the door, pants in hand, covering his vital regions. Arthur froze, looking towards the door.
“…Alfred?” Arthur’s mouth fell open and he fell off his desk, resulting in a flutter of papers and a loud thumping noise as he scrambled to get his clothes back on.
Francis handed him a tie as the boy just stood there, holding his essay with trembling hands.
“Alfred, when did you get here?” Arthur tried to ask in a calm, superior tone, as if he hadn’t just been naked on a desk, having anal sex with his co-worker. Finally, their third party opened his mouth, and Arthur felt even worse (it was apparently possible, although Arthur would not have believed it five minutes prior), as did Francis when he said this:
“I’m Matthew, Alfred’s brother... And I’ve been here since Al left, eh.”
/lj-cut>