Due to the comments on changing the tags from America & England if it is not going to end up that way... I've changed it to just England being the tag. This is purely to be agnostic over who Arthur will end up with. Which, I should point out, I don't actually know who he is going to be with. Honestly, I don't. So, your comments do help to swing the vote. Please tell me what you think?
Warnings for smut and draaaaamaaaa~!
And Two Devious Wolves...
It could have surprised both of them and anybody who had the fortune - or misfortune - to see, though their kiss was far more sensual and slow that either had imagined; lips gliding softly against each other and heads tilted ever so slightly to the one side; indulging in something that was far more anticipated and special between them than a sudden rush of lust. While Arthur and Francis could fall into the category of the expectantly perverse, capable of lusting without love, when two and two finally come together, the outcome became something the rest of the world perhaps might have seen as obscene. Shocking, above all.
When Arthur looked up into those darker blue eyes, there was something inside himself that squirmed. A shuffling, uncomfortable feeling that left him de-motivated and drained. While they could fight for their countries, and they did, with words; energy spewing between them and insults igniting into fireworks of apparent hatred and deceit in the air - however in reality, his heart always ended up more burdened than when conflicts begun. It was like Francis sucked the life straight out of him. Only Francis left him this breathless.
Alfred endeared him entirely. There was a happiness that the American gave him that replenished him and gave him strength - peace of mind, and relief from the saturation of life. Alfred presented him with joy, as well as sadness. He gave him emotions that ran rampant in his body and set his world ablaze with heat and desire and appreciation. The man was the reason why resolve flooded through his veins and he gained the aspiration to fight or take flight. Alfred was his one and only inspiration; the thrill, the adventure and the excitement.
On the other hand, Francis was the complete opposite. By the very nature of Francis's existence, their history and the recollection of events spurring hatred for each other deep inside their bodies; it was obvious that they should have loathed one another from the beginning. The French were constantly trying to ruin the British and vice versa. They were the destroyers of one another; tearing apart the other's will to continue on in his world. 'The bitter rival' suited the description best. It was Francis that had to take his heart out straight through his chest and crush it in his hands, and he to do the same in return. A mutual understanding of conflict arose between them.
In contrast to Alfred - his lovely, darling Alfred, the potential love of his life - Francis was nothing. He was supposed to be the one to make him hate the world, to make his emotions whittle away into nothing and to make his heart crumble like ash in his capable hand. Yet, he could not help but be drawn to him. From the very beginning, their relationship had been nothing but unadulterated fascination. They were fascinated, intrigued, aroused by what the other brought. Perhaps it was a sin to fall in love with your enemy, but it was a process that was shockingly natural. If you fight for most of your life specifically to bring another person down, you begin to live for that person, and that person alone.
So this was it. Alfred, the creator of emotion and passion within him, or Francis, the one that could strip him away to nothing and still find something to love him for. Optimism against pessimism. It was a strangely European thing, as well, to start to crave your own demise. To fail was satisfying, to cry was a godsend, to die was a relief. To live up to your expectations of failure gave you a sense of purpose, in knowing that you meant nothing. So, was he a masochist that wanted to fall, the life drained out of him while he leant his heart to one and only one; or a man desperate to have the life breathed back into himself? To live again as a rejuvenated man? ...Happy?
Their kiss lasted far longer than they thought, chastely leaving them utterly breathless. Arthur gasped for air, eyes crooked to half-lidded as he observed the equally panting man in front of him. His fingers had somehow tangled themselves in the other's golden locks, tugging some of the strands out as he gently ran them through. Francis always had lovely hair. He had never ceased being jealous of the fact. Even in childhood, their relationship was just the same. Less want to fuck, but a similar sense of longing and want to rip to shreds all the same.
"How long have you loved me, Francis?" Arthur murmured softly, pawing now at the other's wet and white collar. His voice came out as a wisp. Life sucked straight out of him, indeed. Why was it always Francis that made him this way? He felt like he could just collapse onto the ground and lay there until the world crashed into nothingness around him, just existing until it was all over. As long as Francis was there holding onto him, he could just linger forever. It was the only thing he needed. The only thing he had to feel.
In response, Francis merely chuckled. His hands lifted and started to massage the flesh of the Briton's legs. The A breath forced its way straight out of Arthur's lungs, and he winced away from the touch; trying to withdraw back, although there was nowhere to go. Arthur did not understand it. He was not this submissive. He did lot let lovers walk all over him, and by Gods he did not act like there was nothing on his mind other than his partner's name - but yet, Francis was doing something - he did not know what - that made him putty in his hands. Had Arthur already known for certain otherwise, he would have accused Francis of magic by now. How easily had he fallen under the other's spell?
The Frenchman kissed his lips softly again, and scooped his arms underneath the Englishman's body, squishing the squidgy and firm bottom Arthur had at his disposal through his towel. He gave a muffle into the kiss, and latched on with a surprised (and none-so-manly) squeak when he was lifted into the air and brought a few feet to the side. Francis parked him back down on the bathroom side, clear of the sink, kicking away one or two of the bottles left strewn there from last night out of the way.
At least in this position, Arthur did not have the taps shoved straight into his back, though the space was equally limited. Francis slotted himself straight in-between Arthur's legs before the Englishman had even realised; nudging the chick-yellow towel further and further up his legs. He drew his head away from those lips, and stared at him expectantly.
"...How long-Love-How long?" Arthur insisted. The Frenchman looked at him carefully, as if trying to think of the correct way to approach his answer.
"Remember when we met?" He asked, watching the emotions flash through Arthur's green eyes. Arthur sometimes loathed just how easy he was, at times, to read. He was like an open book.
Of course he remembered. It had been such a long time ago, but the memory stuck out like a sore thumb in his mind. The scene had replayed itself so often in his thoughts before. Every time that Francis had been on his mind, the image of that ever so slightly larger boy lingering on the cobblestoned beach, wind-wept but beautiful hair and the sea setting his eyes prominent with azure appeared in his head. Just two or three seconds worth of a single image that taunted him endlessly throughout his whole life. Taunting him with wonder - with want to return back to that day, and affirm what he wanted to have as his own.
"Back then, by the rocks?" The Briton queried in return, and Francis smiled freely - pleased that the other had recalled. His fingers softly grazed the underside of Arthur's towel, teasing with want to dip inside.
"Since then. We were so young. You fascinated me from the beginning - that little boy that could not speak a word I understood, so gruff and peculiar. I wanted you." Francis said confidently, leaning in to smother Arthur with his chest; pushing down against the smaller bodied man's ribs in a way that was uncomfortable but oddly satisfying. His mouth ran from a kiss on Arthur's pale petal pink lips, to the jut of his jaw, and down to nip at the squishier part of the man's neck.
"So you had me." Arthur commented, memories of historic battles in the past flooding straight through his mind. His arms lifted up and wrapped around Francis's neck, pulling him further down. The wet clothes squeezed in-between their bodies made both of their skin relatively moist.
"Hastings, oui. 1066 was a good year. We had many victories, and better yet, you came to me." Francis said, lips peaking in a truthful yet marginally bitter smile.
"But I did not let you have me for long. We resisted..."
"How regretful that we had to let half of you burn, cher." The Frenchman's fingers pushed up underneath the towel, and Arthur gasped. His eyes rammed themselves closed, eyelids folding as he squeezed them tightly as if he were in pain. It was not entirely the sensitivity of his body or the touch that had seemingly burnt him, but the recollection of what Francis and that man had done. The scars, if you looked deeply enough, still existed on Arthur's body. The bitter after-taste lingered on the Briton's voice as he finally barked out a small titter.
"How deceitful of you to kill them all. You and that bastard-"
"-Your bastard King-"
"-Over one hundred thousand dead. How could you have slept at night?" Arthur asked, grinning in a marginally crooked manner. He did not like the memory of that man.The man that tried to change him, and tried to make him submit to his will. But then again, it was not all William the Conqueror that poisoned him with his hate for the English north. He could remember how Francis had cried with laughter. Well, now, in the future, Francis was not laughing.
"I was only destroying what you did not need. Purging you. You survived now, did you not?" Francis murmured gruffly, stroking the smaller man's inner thighs while he held in a groan. His teeth bit down at Arthur's neck, and suckled until the patch was reddened and marked. He received a stiff whack on the back of his head, and sudden the hold in his hair tightened; jerking the Frenchman's head right back till he and the Briton were seeing eye to eye.
"I was never the same." Arthur said seriously, giving him a warning look - hoping the Frenchman would keep it below the collar bones. The other did not agree, per-say, but withdrew his lips to look for another activity to occupy his wandering hands and mouth.
"I loved how you still fought. We tried to change you, but you had none of it. I commend it, mon amour." He replied, scowling in return to the Englishman's harsh and accusing glance. They may have felt love for each other, but the fight still was alive between them. It was just another way to steal their soul straight out of their chests. "You were so stubborn, and I wanted to see you rise up and become great."
"As I did."
"As you did - and it has been driving me wild ever since. No matter how many times to tried to drag you down, you resisted. I hated you so much, because I never stopped wanting you." Francis continued his explanation, rubbing his fingers in little circles at the Briton's thighs. Underneath, Arthur rocked up and strived for the touch. His eyes rolled close with a sensuous gasp. Francis could play him just like an instrument, if he wanted. With just a few fleeting touches in the correct places, he would conjure the sounds enough to create a symphony. "'Unhand me, frog' you'd say. How bitter of you. Dieu, did I adore it."
"I wanted to crush you. You and I felt the same for so long." Arthur moaned, pushing back against the touch.
"We both wanted the other to fall, but how is it that we both skipped over the other's identical feelings to each other's hearts too?"
After a pause, Arthur spoke the darker part filling both their minds; "We both wanted to fuck each other too."
"So we shall. Though if it were just to fuck you, I would have done so a long time ago. You have fallen, I have fallen - this world is not our playground anymore. There's only one thing left for us, mon cher." He said softly in return, leaning forwards and brushing his fingers along the lower line of the other man's collar bone. For a second, Arthur seemed heavily distracted. Francis tilted his head partly to the side, trying to evaluate what ever could have been wrong.
"Alfred-" Arthur begun, before Francis immediately rose his fingers and pressed the very tips of three to his lips, silencing the man before he could ruin the moment. Francis tutted, and smiled to try dismiss whatever thought the Englishman was having. Those deep green eyes shot over to the door, almost pleadingly. Not wanting to be angered, Francis took hold of Arthur's head and brought his chin upwards until the nation was forced to look at him.
"-Hush, my sweet. This world is his now, and you can go to him later. While I... well, I want the real prize for my efforts. For the both of us."
Their eyes caught contact, and the connection became inseparable. The world was filled with silence, but there was a mutual understanding between them that both could tap into. They stared at one another with their mouths in natural frowns and a blush like of primrose-coloured dust brushed onto their cheeks. Wordlessly, Arthur lifted his hips up to allow Francis to remove the towel from his lower body; leaving him naked and open for the Frenchman to use however he wished. Though Arthur was not going to merely spread his legs like a good little lover. Or pet.
He pulled out from Francis's grasp, leaning forwards to tease the Frenchman with lips to the tip of that pointed nose. Instead of hopping off of the counter, like Francis seemed to expect (the man took a step back when Arthur pulled away to give him room), Arthur climbed up until he was kneeling on the counter-top. The other watched with a questioning quirk of his eyebrow as Arthur turned around and pushed his torso up against the tiled wall of his bathroom, presenting his back to the other nation. The cold made him wince, but not enough to make him want to bring himself away.
"...Now, if I said that earlier was a better sight, I would undoubtedly be lying." Francis commented, bemused by the way that his partner was acting. The slightly younger of the two shot a predatory glance over his shoulder, as if asking what the hell the Frenchman was waiting for. Pressed plush against the wall, his bottom stuck out just perfectly. His legs were spread slightly, almost enough to show the opening into his body, and definitely enough to be inviting. It was not like Arthur was a virgin, nor did he expect Francis to treat him gently.
Quietly, the Frenchman reached down and picked up a bottle; half chucking it onto the side in his haste. A brief glance to the doorway reaffirmed that it was definitely locked, and that they would be undisturbed. He eyed Arthur suspiciously, wondering if the nation would mind that Alfred would be shut out. Or perhaps, right now, Arthur was too distracted to think straight. Francis would not remind him. He would do the best he could to make sure it was his name on the tip of the Englishman's tongue.
Arthur shuddered slightly, and Francis frowned in reaction. "Are you sure you are fine with this, cher?"
Before the other could deny him the right to touch him, the French nation popped open the bottle and squeezed whatever was inside onto his fingers. The stuff was syrupy, with a silky silver/white sheen that made Francis assume that the viscous liquid was shampoo. He hoped that the double penetration Arthur took the night before had not torn anything within him; otherwise this would certainly sting.
"...You... You had me last night, hadn't you?" Arthur said, closing his eyes and dropping his head to rest it on the cold tile in front, preparing for the contact. "This... this should be fine..." The key word being 'should'.
Francis purposely said nothing.
Instead, he leant over and pressed a small kiss to one of Arthur's plain cheeks - to which the Englishman clenched and tried to arch away from the affection - before pulling himself up so that he was kneeling on the bathroom surface alongside him. He casually rubbed the makeshift lubrication on his fingers, trying to coat each and every bit fluently. Despite everything, he did not want to hurt him. The time for blood and tears was to be over; the time for sweat and moans was now. So he hoped.
The shampoo bubbled and began to lather, and Francis could not help be amused. He was going to make a mess out of the Briton with this stuff - although at least he would be overly cleaned. Still, it was an image that came with erotica; just imagining the froth pooling out of Arthur's body and dripping in lines down those opened legs of his made him lose his breath. Without consulting Arthur first, Francis closed the gap between his back and his front, letting the wet clothes push against the already moist skin. Rutting carefully, he bit down on the shell of Arthur's ear and waited for a stifled breath or the rock of the hips to prove that he was welcomed.
A command came with a soft '...nn...' leaving the sanctity of the slightly younger blond's throat, and the press of his soft cheek to Francis's groin. The Frenchman himself growled in response, closing his eyes and trying to keep himself under control. Despite him being experienced, the world over; it was different when spending time with someone that you did, honestly, want to have some than anything. Obsessively, even. The smallest sound made his arousal twitch in his soggy jeans, and he had to control himself from not breaking and having what he always wanted.
"...Let me explain, frog. I don't usually rush into sex..." Arthur interrupted, voice waving slightly. As if he was scared of losing his dignity by their actions. Never, as Francis thought with a soft sigh.
"If we were rushing, amour, I would have had you years ago. I would not call over a thousand years 'rushing'." He assured.
More than the sex, though, Francis wanted to hold Arthur lovingly. He wanted to be in love, not to just let his emotions run wild until he was sated. He wanted to hold Arthur's hand and show him a whole new world.
He kissed Arthur's shoulders, and found himself feeling glad that there was no shouts for him to get a move on, or to 'just touch (him) already!'. Perhaps he understood, too, how what they had should be treated as delicate as glass. Their movements were slow and subtle; just enough to let one another know that this was what they wanted. This was okay. They did not need to change to love what they had. To anyone else, the touch as Francis finally placed a hand on Arthur's hip, to move the flesh so that he had a wider area into which to slot his other hand, would have been far too tentative. But for them, it was just what they needed. Their little lullaby of assurance.
Without further ado, Francis suckled on those jutting shoulders and enjoyed how Arthur tensed as one finger plunged up inside of him, curving to follow the inner tunnel of his body. He hissed, and gasped, hands splaying against the wall in front for a better grip. "F-Fran...!"
He expressed a harsh chuckle, loving how those muscles flexed and jerked, letting him straight in with ease. Arthur let out a strong gasp, weighted with noise.
"So good." The older nation cooed, drawling out soft pants as he imagined these muscles constricting and clenching around his cock. The going was easy, being as Arthur was still quite opened from last evening, and the Brit allowed Francis to impale the full length of his digit inside with relative ease. Still, he bit his lip to help himself deal with the brief and throbbing sting. The pretend lubricant did its job, but was nothing to the real deal. "You sound just as I thought, I hope you know. Tell me, you want this."
"Yeees..." Arthur moaned, rocking his hips back.
"Just as I have."
"Just as you have." He returned, bracing against the wall as Francis began to thrust his finger into the swallowing heat. The intrusion burned enough for him to clench his eyes tightly in discomfort, but there was something strangely intoxicating about the feeling of something being pushed in and out of you. Perhaps it was the perverse part of him spurring him on, but this was a feeling that Arthur loved. Sex felt so good, and it was not entirely for the relief that the prostate gives.
He could feel the shampoo froth at his entrance, manipulated into bubbles by the excessive motion of Francis's finger. It was unusual, and he squirmed, clenching tightly around the digit getting thrust into his body. The Briton doubted that the lubrication would be good, but he was rather stretched enough from what happened last night. Arthur hated that he could not remember. He hated even more that he did not have the sense to stop it. Whatever 'it' was.
A swift movement from behind made Arthur yelp and slam against the wall in front with the majority of his body weight. He turned his head and gazed at Francis with a questioning, but yet highly aroused look on his face. The lust was obvious by the look in his eyes, obscured by the layer of blond eyelashes. His gaze was met with a knowing smirk, and Francis circled that certain place deep within the other.
Now, he disliked being so rough, but he was slightly disappointed with the lack of noise. Arthur tried to move his hips back to have that finger ram his prostate again; to make stars flash before his eyes, and dizziness consume him like a drunken side-effect. Though Francis only moved away, gripping Arthur's hip with his spare hand to keep him steady, almost slipping the whole damned thing right out of him. His gaze transformed into a glare.
"Moan for me, mon amour." Francis purred softly, beginning to massage inside of the Englishman's entrance - stretching and testing the capability of the muscles. That, and to make the nation before him squirm - trying to readjust that finger back into the position to ram his prostate once more. The spare fingers still dangling out in the cold, wanting badly to be absorbed by that delicious sopping heat, were actively stroking up the cleft and making sure that Arthur was spread wide - wide enough for him to watch with high detail as their skin touched skin.
"I want to know that you have been the same for all these years through your voice. So speak for me."
"Is my body not reacting enough for you to know?" The Englishman hastily snapped back.
Francis regarded him with a pointed look, pausing his actions entirely. His counterpart gave a disappointed whine, but fought for restraint against rocking back against that digit. Satisfied with the display, he deemed it fit to continue. "...I suppose. But you and I still want more."
"Ahh!" Without a warning to his partner, he rammed a second finger in; shampoo spewing out of Arthur as the skin forced its way inside. A particularly chorused moan elicited itself into the air, and the Frenchman soon realised that it came from the both of them in unison.
Slipping them in and out, in and out of the slimmer body, Francis ran his spare hand up and down the Englishman's side; feeling up all the skin available to him. He could not believe for a second that he had finally managed it - he had finally gotten into him, touching him, making love to the one person that conjured feelings too great for him to further ignore. He would be lying if he said that some hatred was not still alive between them, and he would be damned before he broadcasted the fact that he liked the Briton as a wild, untamed stallion of a man.
Needless to say, the display Francis received as he thrust those fingers of his into that one most desirable spot was enough for the Frenchman - experienced as he was - to groan gruffly. He rutted his crotch right up against Arthur's thigh, pressing right up to deliver himself some relief, and to hear Arthur sigh in want - knowing what was about to come.
"That is it." The excitement he felt as each second went past, stroking and stretching his beloved to almost completion with a swift and thorough fingering alone, was getting absolutely unbearable. His incessantly heavy breath warmed the shell of the Briton's ear as he whispered to him, seduction oozing like honey from his lips. "Sing for us both, mon amour. I'm dying with want for you."
"Fuck your over-productive mouth, Francis, and get on with it!" Came the harsh and highly impatient reply, startling the both of them.
"Wouldn't you like that, rosbif?" He teased, letting the image float through his mind.
Arthur narrowed his eyes, gritting his teeth so tightly that it hurt. "Oh youhorror."
The comment earned a hefty laugh, and Francis soon enveloped the smaller body around the waist with his arm; circling Arthur close as bare skin brushed against sloppily wet and drying clothing. A flame was burning inside of him, and the man wondered how long it had been since he smiled this genuinely in a lover's presence. "See? This is what I want. This is exactly it. You bring both the love and the hatred straight out of me. How can I resist it now?"
"Don't resist it and make it happen! ...Ahn... Alfred..."
The brief mention of the other made Francis withdraw away from Arthur a few inches; though his fingers were still firmly seated inside of him. Blanching with determination - and hope that Arthur was not going to suddenly break away in the memory of the other company they had inside of the house - he slotted in another finger and pressed right in till he was gently stroking and caressing the prostate deep within. He nurtured the spot, trying to hide the jealousy as he chuckled; "Stop saying his name now,mon cher."
Arthur shook his head, fingertips scratching and curling against the tiled walls as he was teased; back arching backwards a little more with each and every well-placed stroke. He tried to shake his head, though the feeling of his body being treated so well was driving all of the blood downwards and away from his sensibly thinking mind. "No, I can hear footst-Mmmm..."
"Forget about that and him!" By now, Francis was beginning to lose his patience. He thrust his digits up into Arthur far too roughly, making the man shout out loudly and pant.
"Nngh!"
A loud knock on the bathroom door knocked the breath straight out of the both of them. The Englishman immediately pushed his hips forwards to splay his naked body against the wall, trying to encourage Francis to release his fingers from inside of him wordlessly; although Francis was having none of it. He chased that amazing heat, following Arthur so that he was pinned between him and the tiles - chest shoved right up onto his back. Arthur made a distressed noise, attempting to look guiltily towards the door as another frantic knock came.
"Guys? Are you in there?" Alfred's voice sunk in from behind it. Francis and Arthur caught eye contact with another, and the Frenchman was horrified at how angered he was to see that his beloved genuinely wanted to break away and go to the third party of their affair. Francis narrowed his eyes in determination, not at all willing to lose. Not now when he had finally gotten him - not when they admitted to being in love and not when he was so close to being where he had always wanted to be.
"Don't say a thing, Arthur. Don't let this stop." He mentioned, practically begging for the end not to come; warning Arthur with the look in his eyes that he did not want this to stop - that Alfred could go away, that it would just be Arthur and him; just the two of them. The conflicted gaze that was returned at him could have broken his heart then and there. Said heart of his begun to work on overdrive, constricting painfully in his chest. Arthur's, he could see, was rocketing up and down frantically in his chest - cheeks flushing with highly pressurised blood.
"Francis? Francis, was that you?" Alfred asked. Both of the two blonds trapped inside of the bathroom were alarmed to hear the panic setting into the American's voice. The doorknob rattled. "Come on-Open the darned door!"
Not willing to lose, especially not now, the Frenchman slotted in another finger to try coax Arthur back into the mood to take his manhood; desperately grappling onto hope to bring him back to the state that they were both in before the interruption came. He knew it was hopeless to try having sex with Arthur while Alfred was lingering outside of the doorway, but every ounce of him was begging him to at least try.
He was so close. So close.
Francis continued his the thrusting movement with one hand, impaling Arthur with his highly lathered digits as the shampoo ran in white drips and bubbles down the other nation's legs, while his other was tugging that slender body close to his. His nose and lips buried themselves in the mop of soft, drying blond hair; lips offering comfort in soft, loving murmurs and frantic and excessive kisses.
"...Nn..." Arthur breathed, unable to stop his vocal chords from acting at their own accord. He shook his head again, eyes squeezed closed. It was obvious - by his stance and the way that he was beginning to tremble in the most subtle of ways, barely noticeable unless the eye was trained to spot nervousness - that within himself the man was panicking.
He had no idea what to do, how to react, and by Dieu - Francis could not at all blame him. It was easy enough for him and Alfred to care about one, and one alone; but Arthur was not used to the fact that he was loved by the two people that he wanted the very most. How could they have expected him to know what to do when torn between them? They were treating him like an object to be passed around. Francis knew it would only be a matter of time before that fact blew up in his face.
"Fuck, was that Arthur? F-Francis! What the hell are you doing to him!" The distressed voice came from the other side once more, and Arthur was gasping. Francis quickly noticed that it was no longer from his fingers that were making him shudder and moan uncontrollably, but that the man was actually beginning to hyperventilate. So much conflict burst through Francis's mind, and he froze up himself - not knowing what he was to do.
"Désolé," Francis whispered, loaded with worry, holding the Briton loosely and kissing whatever part of the other he could find. The jerking of the doorknob besides them had gotten more and more ravaging by the moment, and the knocks were returning; getting louder and louder each time. "Désolé, désolé, désolé..."
The motion pressing into Arthur ceased, and Francis was just about to slip his fingers out when the whole place suddenly went into suffocating silence.
"That's it!"
A second or two was the only prelude, filling the air with strangling tension overcoming the pair of them. Then, suddenly, a huge cracking noise sounded from the doorway. With his deep blue eyes wide and shocked, he turned white as he caught the very moment where the door snapped straight off of the frame; spewing splinters and collapsing the large wooden object to the floor with a crash - along with a body following with it. Alfred hit the ground, after running and slamming against the door to ram the thing open. He groaned in pain, massaging his arm before his eyes were conclusively stolen away from the damage he had caused and towards the bathroom countertop.
Alfred stared at Arthur's naked figure, rammed right up onto the wall with Francis pressed against him - thighs dripping with makeshift lubricant, and three fingers obviously lodged inside of his body. The tell-tale sign of sweat was clinging to his shoulders, and the signs of arousal on both the Englishman and the Frenchman were too prominent not to notice.
He could feel his eyes prickling and throat tighten as he slowly slid up to his feet, not looking away. He did not know whether to cry, be sick, or do both. A cold shiver ran through, forcing goosebumps to appear on his skin. Alfred was absolutely stupefied - and neither Francis nor Arthur could blame him.
"...Yo-you're n-n-no-not..." Alfred tried to breathe out, though his voice was stammering almost too much for his words to be recognisable. "You're not... even restrain-Is-Is this a joke to you?"
Taking advantage of the fact that the American did not snap uncontrollably to force them apart by physical force, the oldest of the three blonds removed his fingers and slipped off of the bathroom side, trying to move away from those accusing eyes. They followed him regardless, switching confusedly between the two like a television on the blink.
Arthur turned around and curled up, hugging himself as he tried to recover from his earlier hyperventilating panic. The stressing had made his face red and flushed; although that certainly did not help his case. He opened his mouth to speak, though Francis realised quickly that the man was in no condition to do so at all. Mindful, Francis swiftly tried to give him a chance to recover his breath.
"Alfred, we-"
"-Is this why you ran away? Because I was not Francis, and this whole thing is a setup? To embarrass me and laugh about it later?" Alfred barged his words past the Frenchman's, completely disregarding now that the man even existed. The pain was far too blatant in the American's expression, and he was tearing up on the spot. He kept blinking, trying to stop himself losing composure from the shock.
"A-Alfred, this was not-" Arthur tried to offer, barely containing himself as well, before he was immediately interrupted;
"-Shut up for a minute! How on Earth did I fall for this? Of course this would be the way it would go! ...Well, thanks a bunch for toying around with my feelings, but this sort of thing should not be a fucking prank!" Alfred shouted, restraining himself so hard to stop himself from sobbing. Francis could only stand back and watch as the American shuddered hysterically; but also as his love, their love, sat back on the bathroom side completely petrified with no idea what to do. He was stuck in a rut, and the magnitude of the situation was weighing straight on his shoulders.
If he left it like this, Francis realised, and Alfred left - he would never, ever be forgiven. Arthur would also never ever be able to let this incident go. It was not fair at all. As much as Francis hated to take the blame, it was not entirely the Englishman's fault. It was his for pushing it. His for not stopping when he knew he should have. Hisfor letting Arthur see someone that mattered to him, just as much as he did to him, break down right there in obvious distrust.
He could not let it end like this.
"...I love you, Arthur. I'm not going to take this all back!" The American called out, gripping his fists so tightly that his skin had almost gone beyond white; eyes closed. Alfred just did not want to see Francis's knowing face anymore, nor did he want to see the wounded expression on Arthur's face. All he wanted was answers. Were they doing this all along? All along, and he just did not see it?
"Alfred, I assure you that Arthur has had no part in this at all!" Francis shouted in defence, as Arthur shrunk back.
The bushy-eyebrowed nation was no longer absolutely still, but his movements were significantly slowed as his mind ran in circles; never-ending paradoxes and scenarios, in constant search for a way to fix all of this. Any way to have Alfred forgive him for accidentally giving in to half of his heart. Any way to stop Francis from being hurt that he wanted it to end in the first place.
Why. Why did they both have to return what he felt? Why did it have to end up being so damned complicated?
Alfred walked straight up to his competitor, looking as if he was attempting to kill the Frenchman with just a well-placed glance. Said nation pulled back a step, honestly threatened by the air that the World's leading superpower was emitting. "So you admit that you've been using me from the start? God dammit, Francis! I thought you and I had a deal!"
"The deal was that you and I would both give each other a chance, and we would let Arthur succumb to whichever's will. Forgive me if I'm wrong, dear boy, but just who was holding onto him now?"
"...S-Screw you both!"
The room once again plunged into silence, atmosphere pregnant with nerve-wracking tension. Surprised, Francis and Alfred jointly turned their heads to regard the third and main decisive party of their current circumstance. Standing still there with yellow towel wrapped back around his anatomy and a hefty glare gracing his features was Arthur, brows knitted together. The two of them were stunned to see that they were knitted in anger.
"Eh?" One of the two said, intelligently, causing the Briton to go - finally - absolutely ballistic.
"Christ! Did either of you two think to consider my feelings in this at all? Is this just some battle between the two of you to see if you can capture the 'damsel in distress'? ...You two have been playing me from the very beginning! Just how do you think I'm going to react? Well?" Arthur screeched at them, throwing accusing points and hand gestures at them. Both of the French and American nations inched backwards, frustrated faces turning into a more honest guilt.
"Listen, Arthur-"
"You know what, Alfred?" Arthur began, staying firm with a tone of voice that should not be capable from a man that was visibly frenzied earlier with hopeless confusion. "You shut up 'for a minute' - if you are even capable of doing so. Now, what do you take me for? A liar?"
"I don't, but..."
"What was this chat of yours I received earlier - mm? 'Do not' fucking 'stereotype me'! ...I am no liar, Jones. Neither am I a man that toys with someone's feelings forfun. How dare you even suggest that! ...When I kissed you back, it was because I do love you. Likewise to Francis. You know perfectly well that I did not let you touch me because I just want a cheap lay."
The two taller blonds were still and silent, words sinking in like a lead balloon. But despite their sudden compliance, Arthur saw the need to continue. The fury of the Englishman for the sheer audacity of the men that be believed, honestly, that he loved was on a scale that could not be truly compared. Every part hit them like a bullet, and Arthur was trigger happy with the urge to relieve himself of the guilt he was harbouring on his shoulders and practically crippling him.
"Honestly, I have no clue why I am putting up with this. If you dared to think you could mess around with me, my feelings, then-then-You two obviously are not the men I need in my life. I will not be some emotionless toy or a boy that warbles at every waking opportunity!"
"No, that wasn't what we were...!"
"Mon cher, neither of us expected it to...!" The two of them blurted out simultaneously in defence. But it was clear through Arthur's demeanour that the man was fed up, and done talking.
"Fuck you." He said simply. Two sets of bright blue orbs widened at him, as their hearts set rock bottom. "Fuck you both very much. Now, if you do not mind - I will repeat my earlier sentiment. Get your rusty bollocks out of my house...!"
With that, Arthur swivelled around on the heel of his barefoot, and stalked off towards the broken door. He stared at it disapprovingly, before sailing straight past; out of the bathroom, leaving both of his potential lovers behind and disappearing completely from view, feeling like they had lost him forever. When you desire someone, and solely that one person, for hundreds of years, it was immensely difficult to let go. Even a few years were enough to derail the thickest of loving human relationships. A few months were enough to get over someone who did not matter, without a problem.
To have the dedication, devotion, to love someone for over fifty years was amazing. For several hundred and even almost one whole thousand years, it was a super-human skill that only nations would have even if humans were capable of immortality. To have a dedication like that, you would not let it go easily. Not at all. Francis and Alfred understood that feeling far more than anyone else - and they would be damned, full on damned before they left now.
Turned out, as the devious wolves soon realised, that they were - indeed - 'full on damned' as their target, their scandalous little rabbit, entered the pantry cupboard at the end of the corridor for new linens; to erase the residues of the now well-documented 'last night'. Especially with equipment hanging hereto and thereto, cameras and walkie-talkies strewn right there in complete disorder. Especially, too, when Arthur knocks Francis's laptop in shock - turning the thing back on in a hurry, and re-maximising one particular high-definition window.
"What the hell-!"
Francis and Alfred gave one look to each other, going even more pale than before, as one singular word cropped up in both of their mind; "...fuck."
Don't you just hate me?
Very, very tired, because I went out of my way to finish this update tonight. I'm two hours late for bed... *groan, moan, and other assorted noises*.
I don't know if you've noticed... but detailed fingering is a very, very big kink of mine. I really don't like it when authors skip over it in a sentence or two. So unrealistic... there is so much teasing you can do! *Squirms thinking about it*.
Anyway, yes, please do comment. I've said on the kink meme, and I'll say it here; the speed of my updates are governed, usually, by the motivation I am given to finish the story. I would have abandoned this months ago, had there not been a lovely reception. I've love to see what you guys think, so far :3. Honestly.
Much love to you all, and excuse me while I sleep till Monday, then proceed to panic about my exams. Ta-Ta~!
