Arthur knew that he was nothing but Francis' dirty little secret. A dirty secret used for nothing more than a willing body when there was no one else to do the deed. He knew that there was no love for him from Francis. He knew that this, this dirty act that he did out of love for the man below him meant nothing to him. To Arthur, it was everything. He clung to these moments, memorized them in his brain and desperately guarded them in his heart.
It always played out the same. A phone call or text demanding his presence immediately. He always knew what would happen, and he knew that there was no way he could say no. He could never say no to Francis. Always, he'd drop everything, rush to the man he loved so much; the man that he knew didn't and never would love him back. Maybe he was selfish, taking what he could get, but he didn't care.
Words were rarely ever spoken between them. Arthur knew why he was here, he knew what he was needed for, and he knew that anything else would only frustrate Francis, make him irritated and he knew that in that case, he'd be sent away. Arthur had learned to keep his mouth shut, to not speak about feelings or insecurities.
This encounter had started more or less the same as any other. He was let in through the door, shoved into the wall and hungry, painful bites were showered on his neck. He had known better than to wear makeup there, Francis never appreciated the taste of cosmetics in his mouth.
It was brutal, painful, but he knew better than to protest. He didn't want to be turned out. He knew that in time the brutal nature of the bites would fade into something much more pleasurable. Once Francis' frustration wore down a bit, things would be better. It was always like this.
Arthur knew he was flinching as he grit his teeth, forcing himself to not make a sound of displeasure at the rough treatment he was receiving. It hurt. But he wrapped his arms around the other's neck anyway, held him close and tried to instead focus on the feeling of stubble on his skin. It wouldn't be long until Francis calmed down.
Arthur often wondered if Francis was like this with others. If he was desperate and rough when he was with women, but he never let those thoughts go very far. He didn't like the jealously that followed those thoughts, couldn't stand the pain in his chest at the thought of it.
"Did you want to go upstairs?" Francis had mumbled it into his neck. It was a small act of kindness from Francis. Arthur knew that Francis wouldn't mind doing this right here in the entryway. It wasn't often that he took Arthur's comfort into consideration. He nodded. It was always more comfortable in a bed.
Francis had torn himself away from him, a frown on his face as he motioned for Arthur to lead the way, and Arthur obliged. Why did he do this to himself? Why did he let himself be covered in bruised love bites from someone that he knew would never love him?
He paused, about to just… call this off and endure the Frenchman's wrath and just go home, to spare himself the guilt he knew he'd feel afterwards when he felt it. Arms around his waist and lips on the back of his neck demolished whatever resolve he'd had. His fists were clenched tightly at his side as teeth grazed down the back of his neck. Francis had never done that before.
Oh dear… this was something he'd never felt before. Never once had any one spot on his body made him as aroused as he was right now, never before had he felt a sudden rush of desperation rush through him like he was feeling right now.
He turned, suddenly, his hands gripping at Francis' shirt as he pressed himself against his body. For the first time, Arthur felt the need to bite, to kiss, to ravage the man in front of him. His hands clenched tightly onto the Frenchman's shirt as he devoured Francis neck. There was a sound of surprise from Francis as Arthur roughly shoved him backwards through the bedroom door.
"On the bed… Now…" He hadn't even realized he'd said it until he saw the look on Francis face, first surprise, and then amusement. The Frenchman had an eyebrow raised in interest as he did so, his arms cushioned under his head, watching Arthur as he quickly undressed. Arthur wondered what had gotten into him, why he was suddenly so desperate for this.
Clothes were tossed to the side and Arthur stood before the man he loved in all his nude glory, his member erect and his cheeks dusted with a blush. He must have looked ridiculous, his face a pasty white while the rest of his body remained uncovered. Francis was just watching him.
Arthur's heart was pounding in his chest as he stood there, staring right back, before he moved forward, draped himself over the other's figure, his hands cupping Francis' cheeks as he straddled him. He leaned down, kissed him deeply, eagerly, wantonly. Francis hands were on his back now, running up and down along his spine, sending trembles coursing through his body.
He'd never wanted this so badly before. He'd always done this for Francis, had just been a willing body for the man that had captured his heart. He'd always liked it, even thought about it at times but had never needed it like he needed it now. He fumbled with his hand, opened the bedside table for the lube he knew was hidden there. There was no time for foreplay tonight.
Small, freckled hands pressed that bottled into larger, rougher ones with an urgency that couldn't be denied. Arthur's lips were attacking the Frenchman's neck, leaving soft nips and kisses, rolling the skin between his teeth as Francis opened that bottle, spilled it onto his fingers.
The ragged stubble on the Frenchman's neck had always been something Arthur liked. He enjoyed the way it tickled his face, loved the way it felt against his lips as he worked on his first ever hickey. His hands wound themselves in the gruff man's hair. He moaned when he felt that first finger press into him, pressed back onto it. He didn't want fingers… He wanted so much more. But… He only hoped that Francis would do this quickly.
"Hey now…. Calm down." Francis' voice sounded in the Brit's ears like bells. "You're going to hurt yourself…" It never occurred to Arthur how odd this must be for the man beneath him. Arthur was never the aggressor in their previous acts together. All he knew was that he wanted this, needed it. He released a shaky breath in the other's ear, let out a breathy, "Hurry…"
Francis finally seemed to understand the urgency. A second finger was worked into Arthur's entrance, much less careful than the first. It seemed to Arthur that he was finally getting it that he didn't mind if it hurt a bit. Not this time.
Oh those fingers were feeling so good inside him. It stung just the right way as he was stretched, prodded and every slight brush to his sweet spot elicited a quivering gasp from Arthur's throat. His fingers were clenching in the Frenchman's hair, gripping and relaxing in time with the rocking of his hips back onto those sinfully experienced fingers.
He couldn't take it anymore. It just wasn't enough. "Please… Now…" His words were mumbled against Francis' lips. He couldn't stop the high pitched whine that escaped him when those fingers were removed or the shiver of anticipation when he heard that bottle being opened again. Just a bit longer. Just a few more moments…
Those hands were on his hips, guiding him back until he felt the Frenchman's slicked up member pressed against him. As much as he wanted to take it fast, he knew better. He pressed back, grit his teeth as the head slipped inside him. It always hurt at first.
Arthur took it in slowly, inched himself down bit by bit, until he took it all. He straightened himself up, rested his hands on the Frenchman's chest as he let himself adjust to the member inside him. It was so hard for him to wait when he wanted to move so badly.
Francis hands were rested on his hips, his thumbs drawing small circles on his skin. It was so… tender for Francis… Arthur's heart was throbbing in his chest, his blood pounding through his ears as he lifted himself up and dropped back down slowly. His voice broke out into a pleased groan. His eyes fell closed as he started that slow, easy rhythm.
Back and forth, in and out. It was such an easy concept but his body just wouldn't cooperate with it once Francis began to rock his hips up and into him. He couldn't take it anymore… His pace increased, up and down and yesssssssssss. He wanted it to sting… Wanted it to make him sore…
The man beneath him gave him a concerned glance before he surrendered his worry; just let Arthur do what he wanted. Francis would never admit how good this was for him, watching this man everyone thought was so innocent riding him like this, unashamed and willing and it was so good.
Arthur's body trembled, his hips rising and falling faster, taking that length into him harder. His thighs quivered, heart raced as he rode. Francis was hitting him in all the right spots, brushing against his prostate perfectly with every movement. Why hadn't he done this sooner? Why hadn't he ever just…
Faster. He needed it faster. Needed the burn and the hurt mixed with that sweet pleasure inside him. He could feel that heat coiling in his belly. "Francis…" It came out as a strangled, heavy moan, covered in lust and desperation. Those hands on his hips were gripping him tightly, guiding him in his rapid pace.
There were no words spoken, the room filled with the sounds of their breathing, their pants and moans and the vulgar sound of skin slapping against skin. They worked together in this new cadence, this new dance they were learning jointly. And it was so good.
Francis' hand was wrapped around him suddenly, pumping him harshly and he cried out. It was only a few moments until the coil of heat inside him exploded, and he erupted into those rough fingers with a strangled cry. His body clenched, and he felt that familiar gush of heat inside him, heard the thick groan of satisfaction from the man beneath him.
He didn't know how long he stayed there, slumped atop Francis, panting. His body was exhausted, sated and he felt almost numb from the intensity of his climax. It was Francis who leaned up, took Arthur into his arms and lifted him up and off of him. It was Francis who laid the exhausted Brit softly on the bed. It was Francis who stood and ran a hot bath, even remembering to add the scented bubbles to the water that Arthur so enjoyed. It was Francis who carried him, trembling and exhausted and sore to the bath, set him in the water and sat with him, Francis who wordlessly sponged him off, cleaned the sweat and cum from his body.
It was Francis who dried him with a fluffy, white towel, carried him back to bed and it was Francis who slid his boxers up his still quivering thighs. It was Francis who lay beside him, drew him close and wordlessly kissed his cheek before spooning against him.
It was Francis that he loved. And that made being a secret worth it.