"You're beautiful."
Lie.
"You're amazing."
Lie.
"I'm so lucky to have you."
Lie.
Each lie Arthur told coiled up in him, sending a stab of pleasure to his gut.
He lied as he kissed Francis's slimy lips, "You're so perfect."
He lied as Francis unbuttoned his shirt. He lied as Francis nipped his collarbone. He lied as he trailed kisses down Francis's chest.
And with each lie, the heat in his stomach grew, the sick pleasure making him dizzy.
"I love you." The honesty in Francis's eyes sent shivers down his spine. So … pure. It disgusted Arthur.
"More," Arthur panted. "I want more." No, he didn't want more. But each falsehood coiled down his spine and into his throbbing cock.
Arthur lied as Francis slid his fingers into him. He lied as Francis whispered in his ear, he lied as Francis slipped into him.
And each time, he grew unbearably hard, each false utterance giving him such twisted glee that he nearly came then and there.
It grew in his stomach, an avalanche of lies, pleasure and arousal in the form of honey-sweet insincerity dripping from his lips.
Francis was terrible, sloppy, and utterly repulsive. But Arthur still moaned, he still whined and keened, from the absolute rush the lies gave him.
As their foreheads touched, Arthur opened his eyes. Francis's eyes were wide and trusting, honest and so, so naive.
Arthur's gut tightened at the sincerity in Francis's eyes. It was absolutely, wonderfully, revolting.
"I love you," Francis whispered.
Arthur came.
It disgusted him to feel that kind of rush from all the lies.
"I love you, too."
But it was so, so satisfying.