As for Arthur; he knew it was wrong. There were many reasons why he should have tried to purge these feelings years ago. For the first, Alfred was many years his junior. Over five hundred, in fact. He was literally twice the boy's age and then some. How curious that he was twice his age in actuality, but bodily only peaking by three or four years maturer. Even by human standards, four years wasn't intimately close age-wise. Had people seen that Arthur had raised Alfred practically from the seed of the Earth - a small, inconceivably beautiful child - they would have been horrified.
Truth of it was, Arthur had fallen in love with someone that had once been the equivalent of his son. Even with incest - marrying cousins and whatnot - being quite accepted in the mid-teenage centuries of British history; a father liking a son was unheard of. Quite disgusting, at that. Arthur knew he would have loathed himself, if he was one of the ones standing on the outside of the relationship looking in. That awkward situation was hard, honestly, to overlook.
There was something about Alfred, though, that dazzled him into not caring. Something that blew him away whenever he looked into those curiously deep eyes - not that you would have guessed, but there was a depth to Alfred that was unrivalled by anything. A sense for freedom of speech, independent and heroism that would attempt to heal the world.
(After it was he that broke it, sometimes. Was it not also heroism to try fix your mistakes?).
There was an enthusiasm there that was hard to misplace - and though it had died out slightly in recent times, (post-9/11 and such, of course) there was still that little presence of heart in him that Arthur - in a strange way - highly admired. Arthur knew the American was good-looking, had a heart of gold, and also an annoying bad side that got on his nerves far too many times. But how could he not lend his heart to him? Forgiving that their age was so different, not that it mattered anyway to their unique race, and the American's frightfully hyperactive disposition; there was a connection between them that ran deep.
Arthur wasn't quite sure when he first started getting feelings for the American. Needless to say, while Alfred didn't develop anything before or during the revolutionary war stages (or at least, to his knowledge) - Arthur was far more wary and tormented within himself. Back then, he knew for a fact that he made him feel something different from the others. He thought of it as an innocent adoration at first, but it didn't take long to realise. There was something about the American he loved. He loved Alfred. His little, bright spark of a childish colony. And then, he loved Alfred. The bright spark of a childish colony that turned into a man.
And one that was no longer his.
Alfred had the entire package that made Arthur's mentality secretively weep. His body, for one, was quite glorious. He couldn't forget that one time he had to leave America to fight in the wars across in Europe, leaving Alfred as a young boy and then coming back to find a handsome man had taken his place. It was so shameful, but Arthur couldn't possibly have taken his eyes away from him.
Alfred had something highly attractive about him. Maybe it was his muscles - he must have been doing lots of work with his people while Arthur was away - or perhaps the slight tan that highlighted his facial features with just enough depth and torso with just enough definition - no doubt obtained by topless exposure to the New England sun. That probably was the first time Arthur ever noticed Alfred. In a sexual light, that is.
(Arthur had left early that night, and found the first place to stay that he could. There was no way that he could have relieved himself in Alfred's own home. Not when his moans were filled with only one sweet name excessively escaping his lips. He couldn't stop throwing up the day after, ridden with internal disgust. Alfred, bless his heart, looked so concerned. ...It didn't help. Not one bit).
Maybe that was one of the reasons why Alfred was so much more important to him than his other colonies. He was the heartache that Arthur just couldn't get enough of. He didn't like to be away from him; away from that charm, and handsomeness that slowly started to devour his insides whole. But in a way, he knew it was for the best. The small fascination with the young boy he found and won over that one summer day a long, long time ago, almost became an addiction before it was too late.
It would be an entire lie to deny that there was - deep, deep down - a sense of relief along with his mourning when the American left. He thought that he could finally move on, letting his broken heart be the incentive to heal. But when was life ever simple? When did it ever give exactly what those in need were quietly begging for?
(There was relief too, when Alfred came to join the World Wars. He did as he did best - what the American highly aspired to do, from the birth of his nation and even before. Arthur was glad that he could fulfil himself; to fulfil the duty that made Alfred who he was. But that didn't mean Arthur had to be nice to him.)
Eventually, while Arthur was alone for the decades upon decades with so much time to spare, he finally noticed that it was beyond 'lust' that he felt for the American. Alfred was one of the two things that Arthur longed for - desperately - but could not have. It was impossible to not loathe 'love' in those circumstances. But 'love' it was. And true, he loathed it with every breath.
He tried to take his mind off of it. His empire expanded to the largest that the world had ever seen, never letting the sun set on his glory. His industrial revolution quickly spread throughout the world and transformed human capabilities. Life was busy. But when you live endlessly; you always manage to find time to think. Time to think meant time to lament. Time to find things to miss.
So it was there he realised that 'importance' Alfred had, to him, was new. Different. Good.
(Bad. On the battlefield, distractions meant death. The small shards of lead still buried deep in one shoulder was a reminder of such. It hurt a little bit even now when he flexed his shoulder. How he managed to survive through the Second world war without adding a single death to his count, he didn't know. Sometimes, you survive far better when you know what you wish to live for).
In the end, Arthur came to accept it as truth. It was another example of his chaotically thick stubbornness. Even several hundred years with this feeling possessing him, he didn't come to terms until he - himself - beat the thought over and over through his mind a hundred thousand times and then a hundred thousand more.
Truth was; he belonged to Alfred, literally at first sight. On reflection, he would blame only himself for the fact that he lost him all those years ago - despite his hot-wired want to keep the American, and his lands, for the British empire and his own heart. Of course he knew it was his fault that Alfred and his people left. And how could he possibly deny, now, that it was for the best?
He had been far too aware of his feelings to Alfred for years, upon years. It made him sick at the best of times; nightmares burdening his mind and sickness running through his body whenever it came around to 'that time' of the year. To think that once upon a time, July was a joyous month - filled with warmth and promise. That said, it was not very English at all to enjoy when things are going one hundred percent right.
Perhaps then, that was why Arthur broke away and ran off. The same reason why he didn't believe that Alfred loved him back - right until the other blond beat it into his skull and kissed him thickly until the facts stuck in his mind - and why his mind saw it so believable that they had slept with him the night before; even in such ridiculous and obviously fake circumstances. With evidence hidden - from the vibrators to Alfred's feelings before - he couldn't believe anything other than the presumed to be true.
Seeing is believing, and Arthur had seen an awful lot in his millennia and a bit of life. He wouldn't have believed in fairies if he hadn't seen it, for example. But Alfred's feelings was one thing he didn't see. Similarly, Francis's had still gone unnoticed.
Arthur's emotions toward Francis were even more complicated than Alfred's. Lust? Yes. Love? ...Yes. Hate? Definitely. There were so many layers to break down to even get a clue how either of those two felt. Or at least, how they really felt. Their distaste with one another was already far too obvious to see. And without understanding the Frenchman's motives, he couldn't move on from that either. True motives, that was. So while Alfred's were now in clear daylight for all to see, Arthur still felt disguised in the dark. That had to change.
Alfred could only linger uselessly in the kitchen, wondering where on earth he had gone wrong. Perhaps he can come on too strongly when he forced Arthur down onto the kitchen side and threatening to strip the Brit of everything he could give – but it was merely to make a point. Arthur's skull was hilariously thick, and we aren't talking about physical density here.
He had always believed in something, a universal truth, all the way up until another contradicting point was rammed into his head so hard that he was forced to put up with it. The theory of evolution, for example, was ridiculed for many, many years – but eventually Arthur came to see the absolute possibility of its truth. But it didn't come quickly. History dictated that much.
On an even more personal scale; Arthur was not initially able to come to terms with the revolutionary war. Not until he was there on that battlefield, rain cascading in heavy clumps from the skies, and pointing his gun at the one that had previously been his 'brother'. Facts sometimes bounced off of Arthur's head like it was a squash court. No matter how many times you smashed that ball into the wall, it always rebounded back. It was one of his most maddening, irritating, exasperating, and downright annoying (along with other similar synonyms) aspects of him. But it was who he was – a cocky gentleman bastard that didn't see sense, though he was quick to accuse others of exactly the same.
(But that didn't matter. Alfred wanted to be with him all the same).
With a hefty sigh, Alfred gazed out of the window with a weary look on his face – disliking the taste of defeat. It was peculiar that the 'taste of defeat' was also the 'taste of Arthur', wasn't it? The American slowly lifted his fingers to his lips, and smoothed over the spot that previously had the person that captivated him the most sealed against. It was so easy to stereotype Arthur as tasting just like tea, but the Englishman was actually nothing of the sort. There was a distinct fragrant taste about him that reminded Alfred of salt-water taffy - sweet, but with a bit of an unusual kick. Needless to say, Alfred would not turn down the chance to kiss the Brit again.
...Which could have been one of the reasons why he felt so honestly devastated. Though there was no real rejection, the Englishman still wasn't here anymore. He still wasn't kissing him. He was no longer letting Alfred gently touch his skin – letting Alfred whisper soft, comforting things in his ear. There was a certain yearning inside him that wished he had grabbed onto the Brit's wrist and not let him go.
It was so easy to wonder the many reasons why Arthur could have ran off, and none of them granted Alfred any sort of comfort at all. He couldn't deny that the feeling he was harbouring did contain that smallest hint of upset and sorrow. But, the majority of it manifested as a niggling anger. The sort of anger that builds up the more and more you think. Well, unluckily for Alfred, his mind was running around and around in circles.
"Dammit!" Alfred growled under his breath, swearing blindly and roughly. Why did Arthur have to be so dense? And people accused him of not paying attention often enough!
So what was it? Was he too forceful with his administrations? He had started to strip Arthur a bit suddenly – but surely, surely, if the Brit believed that they had had sex the previous night, then he would have been less bothered to rid himself of his clothing? It couldn't possibly have been that the stubborn smaller man was against it – Alfred knew all too well that the soft moans Arthur gave were the echoes of nothing but encouragement. The treatment would have been so much softer than his experiences in the past. Everyone knew the previous Empire was not estranged to having sex. He was practically a scoundrel back in 'the day'. Plus, arousal on men was so obvious to notice. No. That couldn't have been it.
('I need to think'. What a bastard. Did Arthur really think that he couldn't understand that face? He had to get away. How could he have stopped him? ...Underneath his superpower demeanour, he was only a man. A man... with a breakable heart)
Maybe Arthur just didn't see him in that way. The American became even more annoyed at the fact that his lower lip quivered at the thought. It was possible of course that Francis had played him. 'He loves you', mm? Yeah, right. There was a very bold line between being in love with someone, and being in lust. Now that Alfred thought about it, last night only proved that Arthur saw Alfred as a well-deserving sex figure. He may have screamed his name, but did he even once say that he 'loved' him?
Even once?
If he wasn't mistaken, that was how Francis and he reacted to seeing him moan their names out the night before. Arthur, himself, said nothing of the God damned sort. It had been a long time, Alfred had thought, that the stingy Englishman had gotten laid. When desperate, you could fantasise about pretty much anyone. Maybe that was it. Maybe Arthur just wanted to have Alfred with him for the sex. But if that was true, why – why – would he have left just went it was beginning to get serious?
Damn Francis. Evidently, he didn't always get it right. Filled with frustration, Alfred slammed his fist against the side and let out an annoyed groan. He wished sincerely that he was back at home, where he could do work or even shriek into his pillows to rid himself of this feeling. The tension was getting harshly on his nerves, and he couldn't stop himself getting enthused with the idea of deceit. Francis probably knew that Arthur would run away – that he would somehow pull a mistake; whatever that mistake may be. Heck, he didn't even know! How was he supposed to contend with this?
The Frenchman had said he was in love with him, didn't he? Was he just a fool to believe it? Alfred grumpily buried his head in his hands, wondering whether Francis had played him from the start. He hadn't thought of it before, but he genuinely didn't know the long-haired blonde's feelings on the matter. It was so easy to think 'Hey, it's Francis. He's just in this because he wants to have sex with Arthur and be done with it. That's what he's always like – right?'
('He seems to be mistaking you for a simple villain. Do you think he just has no faith? Aren't you angry that he judged you out of character?')
Little did he realise, but he was doing exactly what Francis told him that Arthur was doing wrong. And that was 'to judge'. He had been so offended about how Arthur blamed him for something horrifically un-heroic, that he didn't notice himself judging Francis exactly the same all along.
Maybe Arthur 'couldn't', because he was in love with Francis, and Francis alone. What about that? Alfred could barely believe he didn't even think about the possibility that the Frenchman was manipulating him like a little leash to bring Arthur to his knees. Perhaps it was merely a set up to have the Brit abandon thoughts of lust and adoration to him in the first place. He could have been sad because it wasn't Francis that came after him. Or Francis that tried to comfort him that morning. What if Arthur was running away from him now because he wanted to know what Francis felt?
This feeling of jealousy... he did not like it. Not one little bit.
Alfred sighed, wondering how many more tales of deceit would flourish in his mind. This was ridiculous – and frankly, he wanted an end to it. If he wanted to know what Arthur and Francis thought, then he would have to ask them straight up. Whatever happened to the 'brash' him? Just because it was dealing with love, he was dodging the easy routes. Francis was right, back in Arthur's bedroom. He just had to be himself. He'd have to get the two of them to talk, whether they wanted to or not.
With that in mind, Alfred hopped off of the kitchen side with a highly determined look on his face. It had been about fifteen minute – going on twenty – since Arthur had ran off, and as far as the American was concerned, that was damned long enough. He took a deep breath, letting the nerves try to settle inside his stomach, and brought his hands roughly through his hair a few times. A nervous habit, as it were – everyone had to have some tics.
A loud noise coming from upwards made the American bolt to attention, eyes snapping in the vague direction of wherever it was. He couldn't work out what happened – the sound was so dull – but he knew he wouldn't like it one tiny bit. Knowing the only two other occupants of the house, Alfred's mind filled in the mental blanks.
"Fuck—" he cursed loudly, and sprinted off to find where the noise had come from. If either of them had tried to kill each other... or worse... he would not forgive himself.
Why did I ever give them an opportunity to be alone...?
Arthur wasn't sure exactly where he was heading when he left the kitchen. Of course, had Francis been wise, he probably would have scarpered from the house by now. But then, when was Francis ever filled with sense? The Englishman tutted to himself gravely, and climbed the stairs to see if the Frenchman had moved from his position in the bed or not. It would be far easier if Francis came to seek him out himself like Alfred had, but then, Arthur wasn't certain of his intentions. For all he knew, Francis came last night just to piss about with him and that was the absolute end of it.
If it weren't for Alfred being so demanding and persistent about pushing his love onto him, then Arthur could have sworn that he would have left this uncertain feeling completely alone and forget about it. This was what Francis did best, after all - sleeping with people when they were nothing but worse for wear. Yes, Arthur's opinion upon him was far less than grand. But if only Alfred didn't do this for some other ulterior motive, he would have just let the situation lie.
He'd kill Francis - and Alfred for that matter - for doing this to him. He really would. It was such a bother to care about something that was such an inconceivably, horrifically burdening heartache. But fuck it all, in a way, the pain was all worth it. Yet, even as the Englishman went to seek out the French equivalent of his race; his mind kept snapping back to what happened downstairs. The taste of Alfred kissing him lingered in his mouth, the spittle exchanged between them leaving an odd presence in his mouth that Arthur hesitated to swallow.
In a way, he wished he could allow that taste to last but that little touch longer. Anything to act as a constant reminder that yes - yes - he and the American had kissed. He and the American declared love. Or, at least, Alfred did.
Because damn it all; Arthur was not one to cave into using such meaningful words easily. People took those words highly for granted these days, and the Brit loathed that fact with a passion. Why ever say 'forever', when for humans 'forever' meant hardly anything? They had no idea how long an 'eternity' was.
Getting to the landing, Arthur was concerned by the fact that the entirety of the upstairs section of his house was hushed. Not a single noise of movement. His eyebrows quirked curiously, and his movements slowed to reduce his own noise levels as he slinked towards the bedroom. Did Francis really leave? Conspiracy theories were already running in Arthur's head. He half expected Francis to suddenly jump out from one of the rooms with a startling 'boo'.
Frowning deep, he reached his bedroom door - sighing, and then quietly pushing it open. Inside, the air was fragrant with the scents of sex - and Arthur was personally disgusted. Knowing that sweat and other substances, particularly a very staining white, were clinging thickly to his glorious gold linens made the inner-housewife inside him shudder. Looking in, he wasn't surprised to see that Francis was nowhere to be seen. The scene he had left that morning in the mood was more or less identical to before.
He wasn't sure whether the feeling he got then was disappointment, or a bizarre but heavy sense of relief. Arthur mumbled to himself, feeling his heart slowly condense in his chest. At least, if Francis wasn't a candidate for his affection, then allowing himself to Alfred was a much easier choice. But wherever was the closure in that? Arthur had a sad but sneaking suspicion that unless he talked to Francis, he would never be able to accept this and move on. Francis must have been there last night for a reason - and damned, Arthur wanted to know what it was.
Staring at the jostled sheets, stained with his own juices at the very least, Arthur recalled the image he gained when he woke up that very morning. Francis's well-structured side displaced on show to give Arthur's mentality images for probably years to come, and Alfred's hot muscular body contributed warmth to areas not defined solely to his blushing cheeks. Arthur licked his lips, think about Alfred kissing him again. How that probing tongue forced his mouth wide open and pushed in, kissing strongly but also passionately. Youths were always so much fun - so eager and willing to experience. Thinking back made Arthur's stomach boil and his heart leap.
And then there were those strong hands holding him down while the American muttered encouragement with words that were sweeter than saccharine and lips that practically danced over his bare and pale skin. To think, when he saw Alfred naked earlier, his internals turned almost to squishy mush.
Knowing - believing - that Alfred and that honestly large length had pushed inside of him the night before, screwing him roughly into his own mattress; Arthur was practically set alight. Heat in his lower body took over, and the Brit finally realised just how naked he was. With only one layer of material covering him, stopping Alfred from getting in, it was impossible to ignore the strain his arousal caused. He felt suddenly sticky, as if the memory re-awakened his mentality from the night before.
Arthur looked around awkwardly, knowing that - damned - if he didn't get the image of Alfred lingering over the top of him, or didn't take care of this 'little problem' now; then he wouldn't get over it for a long time. Francis was nowhere to be seen, and he had left the American in the dark - so there was time to take care of it, wasn't there? The Englishman eyed his floor, seeing the random items of sexual aid strewn about like it was sweets at Halloween. How ideologically inappropriate for things to fuel his arousal even further where right there in front of him.
(God. He could visualise it so clearly. Whether it was Alfred taking him from behind, with his arms thoroughly tied together - or him riding the damned cowboy like the boy was a bucking bronco.)
Images flashed clearly through Arthur's mind of himself using them for Alfred's pleasure; performing kinkily, just as his personality quite heavily dictated. He was a very strong-willed soul. Nothing quite bothered him when it came to sex. When you lived as long as Arthur did - everything must have gotten terribly sexy at some point. Though, damn him - if he wasn't hilariously hard, he didn't know what he was. A fool, probably.
(Alfred between his legs, pushing up into him while he moaned from behind the ball-gag; lust drowned in his eyes and pants visible in the reverberations of his naked chest).
Arthur choked back a moan, and quickly shot his hands up to muffle his mouth. Resting his back against the door frame to hold himself up, the Englishman let the thoughts take him over for a few more moments. Why ever did he have to be so good at imagining things? The amount of times he managed to get hot and bothered - even in company - was truly amazing.
His eyes latched onto the bathroom door from his position. Being the only room in the house that locks, the desire to head there was suddenly very – very – appealing. After all, what if Alfred walked in on him pleasuring himself to his name? Whether they shamelessly fucked last night or not; that was still so undignified. If he was going to sort himself out, he was doing it in private. Away from shame and mortification. That; and he needed to get this sticky feeling off of himself. To be purged, he supposed.
With one more tentative look back at the bedroom, capturing the last of the memories of that morning passed; Arthur cast aside the feeling of dirtiness in his body as he let his feet pitter-patter forwards and into the bathroom. He turned, and sealed the door with a prominent click. If Alfred came, or Francis appeared out of hiding or something odd like that, he wouldn't get caught this way. Protected by not only an easily-breakable wooden object, but an invisible barrier of privacy. That said, since when did either of those two ever play by the rules of 'privacy'? It was practically one of their defining features, and one of the only things that made the two of them similar.
Hark; perhaps that was why he loved the two of him. Mentally, he was just a damned masochist.
(It wouldn't be in Alfred's nature to hurt him, but he could imagine it anyway. His wrists would be bound together and he'd be on his knees, with his legs spread wide apart. The whip would strike across his back and a shout would leave his mouth in pain. His lips were still encrusted with white from earlier, when the other had forced his cock down his throat. The shouts would soon become pleasured moans, and it would become too much for the bespectacled antagonist. He would shove Arthur to the ground roughly, and enter him. No preparation. Just... enter. Then they'd rut, teeth and tongue clashing as they indulged in one another, like it was their only function in life).
Arthur didn't bother going over to turn the extractor fan on - erection suddenly getting almost too aching to move too fast. Avoiding the bottles out and about on the bathroom floor was like an obstacle course of its own. By the time he tumbled into the shower and tossed off his trousers, the Briton was already way past half-mast and was wet at his tip already. Turning on the shower made Arthur verbally groan with relief. With the water trickling down his shoulders and quite a bit further, deep into the crevices the curves of his body provided. His hand shot out and rested against the wall, as Arthur allowed the water to run all over his body like some watery lubricant. His head tipped up towards the sky, and he listened to the sound of the shower pump whirring along with his shortening breath.
(He wanted to run his hands all across that oiled up body. And so he did. The Briton smoothed his fingers over the lubricated dunes of muscles, absolutely fascinated by the slightly golden sheen they gave off. Looking down at his hands, he was amused to see how sleek they had gotten with one stroke. Their eyes connected, green on blue, and Arthur rose to his feet. He leant forwards and closed the gap between their bodies; sliding easily against the other's oiled skin, before his patience got lost. Their arms wrapped around one another, and they grinded with their grip being desperately hard to keep.)
When Arthur started swaying on the spot, he knew he had to push himself into caving in. Swallowing, Arthur allowed his free hand - the one not trying to hold him steady on the spot - to slowly inch down the expanse of his pale-coloured side. There was something strangely satisfying about holding your own hips and pretending it was someone else touching them - especially when you had good hips like he did. While he didn't have much confidence in his body otherwise, the Englishman was definitely aware that he had good legs. Elegant and thin, they were. Nice arse too, if he didn't think so himself. He'd been told that fact one hell of a lot of times - so, like most things for him, he began to believe it.
Just as well. He didn't have very many other handsome features, what with eyebrows like golden caterpillars invading his face - yes, he was very bitter when it came to those. If you knew what was best for you, you wouldn't say a thing about them - and a natural scowl cursing his otherwise quite blessed qualities.
Arthur paused when his fingers came around and started to rub the cleft of his backside, dipping in with the sincere intention to finger himself while the mental image was hot and fresh in his mind. But rather typically, he ceased all function again. Arthur closed his eyes tightly, and allowed his fingers to slip further - spreading his legs apart for easier access. With the tips brushing the borders of his entrance, probing softly, the Englishman gave a small whining moan with want.
But his fingers still hesitated. While he unwillingly procrastinated, trying to pluck up the courage to thrust his own fingers into himself, Arthur's hips rocked forwards and back; simulating the motion already. If only he could get the feeling. Obviously, if Alfred and Francis had slept with him the night before, then he hadn't been able to finally finger himself after all. The fear to do so was entirely renewed.
With a sigh, Arthur slumped his head forwards heavily against the wall tiling and removed his hand from in-between his sweet cheeks. The shower was spewing steam all throughout the bathroom, spreading even thicker than it should without the extractor fan sipping the air away. The atmosphere surrounding, as a result, was sodden with heat and a dense feeling that made breathing that little bit harder. Not that Arthur noticed. His personal arousal was enough to make him pant without even touching it.
(They took hold of him and began to thrust their hand up and down the shaft in hard strokes. Arthur could have sobbed at the feeling, pushing against that slick palm. The cock ring sealed around his length was almost murder, and he squeezed his legs together - trying to be able to deal with the rapid want, absolute urge, to orgasm. Yet, the ring stopped him from pushing over the edge, no matter how good and frantic the movement against his member felt. His mouth soon started forming words; pleads, even. Pleads that begged - yes, actually begged - whomever was jerking him off to let him have his release.)
Almost ridden with cowardice, Arthur took hold of his shaft and began stroking. The thrusts were eager and desperate; aimed to help get himself off as soon as he possibly could. He wetted his lip, right before bursting out into a rough chorus of nameless moans. A couple of hundred years of being knowingly, at least slightly, homosexual told him exactly how to toss off a man and make it feel damned good; and he was no stranger to his own benefits. He ran his fingers over the very front, dipping into the slit and smearing pre-cum onto his already sticky fingertips. Tilting his head back, he revelled in the feeling of pleasure consuming him while the water washed him of last night's dirty mess.
In fact, he was too distracted to hear the creaking in the background and the small presence of scuffling steps. If only he had known.
(The bar held his legs wide open, even though the touches made him want to close them in urgency. It was strange, that inner reflex making you wish to snap your legs together and protect yourself from the invasion - as if it was unwanted. When he felt something prod and probe, and finally push, all thoughts of 'unwanted' left his mind, and he lifted his hips upwards - accepting whatever expanse he could into his tight little body).
He wasn't sure when it had happened, but somewhere along the lines, the fantasies began to lose Alfred's characteristics and Alfred's face. The love-maker was ambiguous. But either way, they always smelt faintly of coffee. French or American, God only knew. They also smelt vaguely of roses. But; both their smiles felt like lies, and their words both were like poison.
Though he was addicted to the pulse. He couldn't get enough. Each mental image was more vigorous and detailed than the last. No matter what, they reminded him of a certain two people every single time. Arthur's legs trembled as he visualised it perfectly, hand surrounding his girth beating faster and faster by the passing second.
(Finally, there was relief. Arthur moaned loudly, almost shouting as he pulled over the edge. It felt so complete - like the feeling one got after hearing the last note of an epic symphony. The music always ended after an atmospheric high. Needless to say, the atmosphere was so thick with fervency that it could have been bitten through).
The Briton groaned, slumping a few inches and resting his body weight forwards; letting the majority of his body lay standing against the bathroom wall. No doubt, the wall wouldn't have liked that session very much. As Arthur panted heavily, recovering from his orgasm, he made a mental note to scrub the mess up while it wouldn't stain the tiles behind it. His legs were fumbling like jelly, and it was hard to hold himself steady as he stood. His mouth was opened wide, slight presence of saliva escaping the side of his lip from the visit to 'white hot bliss', while he tried to recover breath that he didn't even realise that he had lost.
...He stiffened when something cold was pressed to his behind.
Fingers, he identified quickly; cupping his naked bottom and then squeezing it. Startled, the British nation turned his head - only to have the movement ceased by another hand. They covered his mouth, just as he was about to speak in shock and outrage. Manoeuvred so his eyes were facing the wall tiles again, Arthur was too initially surprised to move. Especially when whoever was behind him nipped playfully at the nape of his neck. Though it only took one word for the Englishman to know exactly who was there.
"Bonjour." Francis chuckled under his breath, calmly kissing the curvature of Arthur's bare shoulders.
Here you are. Smut and Francis!
Originally the order on the kink meme was Alfred's Part - Arthur's feelings - Arthur's actions. But because the end of Alfred's part is after both of the Arthur parts (while the start was at the same time as them), I thought it would be a little less confusing if Arthur's thoughts came first.
The 'bang' heard in Alfred's Part is yet to come, so, hold on tight to see what it was :'D!
Oh. And there IS an explanation to how Francis got into the bathroom. Yes, Arthur did lock the door. No, Francis wasn't in there before. If someone guesses, I'll be rather happy XD.
Ta guys. Hopefully the next update will be up soon! 8D.
(Smut is getting closer. Ohonhon. I promise it'll get much more detailed and vigorous than the original fill).
