Requisite

Gentle fingers combed through golden locks of hair. A brush, it's handle one of pure silver, followed after. Arthur combed the golden tresses until they shone in the afternoon sunlight. Gently, he kissed the top of the gold waves, smelling the perfumes put in the hair earlier that day.

"You're not allowed to cut your hair." he whispered. "Never." Francis didn't reply. He merely stared at him blankly through the mirror, gorgeous blue eyes dull and lifeless, playing with the tassel of the belt around his waist.

"Arthur..." Francis turned to look at him, pleading silently with him. "Arthur, you need to let me go. I can't stay here forever." Arthur snarled viciously, the soft grip on his hair suddenly tight and painful.

"I'm not letting you go. You belong here with me. You belong to me. Why don't you understand that?" His fingers worked at the buttons at the back of the pale pink dress, pushing the sleeves down over his shoulders to let it bunch at his waist. "Now what color should you wear today?" His smile was a thin veil of cruelty. As the dress came away, it revealed fresh scars.

Francis's arms came up to cover his chest, eyes turning away from the mirror he sat before, unable to stand the sight of himself. He looked so horrible, so ugly. The scars were still raised and red, sometimes they reopened. Sometimes Arthur tore them open again himself.

"No." Arthur whispered against the curve of his neck, pulling his arms away. He kissed the pale stretch of exposed neck. "Let me see." His fingers traced the scars, emerald eyes glowing with sick fascination and twisted affection.

"Arthur. Arthur, please. Stop this." Francis squeezed his eyes shut, the chilled fingers traveling over his flesh, prodding at the sensitive skin around the scars. The pain had dulled a long time ago. It felt too good. That pleasure scared him.

Arthur smirked. "Never." He hissed. "You're mine. I won't let you go." He pulled Francis up, dragging him off the small stool towards the large bed and tossing him on it. He laughed softly, trailing kisses over the abused skin laid out for him, all his to claim and kiss and own. "You're so beautiful."

"Arthur, I want to leave. I want to go home." His words were softly spoken. Didn't hint at his growing hate, sadness and pity. Didn't hint at the pleasure, the fear, the anxiety that grew inside of him.

He let Arthur touch him, because he pitied him. In Arthur's delusional world, this was love. This finely furnished room, the vases of fresh roses brought in daily, the wardrobe filled with pretty clothes. It was all love. Petting his hair every evening, dressing him up and then fucking him until he passed out, it was love. It was normal.

He felt ugly. Arthur's marks on him were ugly. What Arthur did to him was ugly. That he simply lay there and took it was ugly. And it didn't matter if others called him a whore. He would not allow Arthur to take his dignity and pride so easily, whatever was left of it. Arthur couldn't do anything more to him. Couldn't make him any uglier.

"Francis I love you. You're beautiful." Arthur mumbled the words over and over, again and again across his skin. Francis couldn't bear to listen. It burned. His hands traveled down his clothed thigh, slipping up underneath the dress. There were bruises there from the night before, and the night before that too. Many, many nights told their stories in the aged bruises of his thighs. Arthur kissed each bruise and smiled up at him.

Francis wouldn't look. Wouldn't watch Arthur so 'innocently' enjoy dirtying him. Wouldn't watch Arthur rip him apart.

"See, Francis?" His fingers, well practiced in ways to make his body obey him, found his hole, yielding and supple, and slipped in. Francis tensed and moaned, looking towards the ceiling for salvation, gripping expensive silk sheets and twisting them in his hands.

"Arthur..." He moaned, the fingers thrusting agonizingly slow, blunt nails intentionally scraping along the inner walls until he could feel every movement and old cried for more. He felt dirty. The marks made him dirty. The enjoyment made him dirty.

"I'll keep you here, and I'll give you everything you need." he spread his legs further apart, stroking the hard length he found under the dress, thumb rubbing the slit and smearing the precum gathered there. "And no one will ever touch you."

He grinned at Francis, finding a familiar bundle of nerves, caressing it as Francis twitched, body arching up and tightening like a bow, hips thrusting back onto the fingers. Francis groaned, disgusted with himself as Arthur drew his fingers out. Ugly. Wrong.

"What is it that I need Arthur? You're always telling me about what I need." Francis asked breathlessly as Arthur undressed enough to free his cock, hands finding his hips and gripping tight. More bruises for him to lament. More marks for him to hate.

"That's a stupid question. I give you sex and food and pretty clothes." Arthur pushed himself inside with a long low groan, smiling as he listened to the deep velvety scream of primal pleasure, drawing out to slam in again. Every expression, every sound, every breath, every flutter of the stomach. Arthur memorized it. Everything of Francis was his.

That's not what he needed, Francis thought venomously. He didn't know what he needed. But it wasn't any of this. Not material items, those weren't it. He needed something that sex had never been able to give him.

He tossed his head back, crying Arthur's name to the ceiling, legs wrapped around the smaller waist, mind swept away in pleasure, and dirt. Orgasm fast approached. He gripped Arthur's shoulders, pulling him closer and holding on, or else he'd be crushed under a tidal wave. And the fact that it was wrong, that he should feel ugly, quickly slipped from his mind. For a moment, he felt blissfully fulfilled.

"But that's not what you really want. It's not what you need." Arthur's words were whispered softly into his ear as he drifted between the worlds of dreams and wakefulness. Thin fingers stroked his scarred chest, left endless marks that couldn't be seen, couldn't be washed, but Francis could feel, burning. "All you really want is love."

Arthur snuggled beside him, watching his angel, ensuring he would not slip away in the night. He was all that Francis would ever need. If Francis wanted to be hurt, he would hurt him. If he wanted to be fucking until he couldn't breathe, he would fuck him. He was Francis's toy, his slave. His drug. Even if Francis didn't know it.

"And I'll give it to you. I'll give you everything."

Owari