A/N: Gyahhh, this took foreeeeever to write! Sincere apologies to all my readers. I got a little carried away with the smut, too, so... honhonhon.

WARNING: This chapter is sexually charged like you wouldn't believe. Read at own risk; I'm not responsible for any mental scarring and/or smut addiction.

TO THE REST OF YOU: Go ahead and enjoy! Knock yourselves out from nosebleed...

Chapter Sixteen: Kiss it, Make it Better

"Oh, my God—!"

Arthur screamed, clutching tightly at the bedsheets and arching his back. His hips bucked upward desperately, and he let out another mindless yell, that scent all around, another body sweaty and hard against his own, a low voice purring rough words of praise in his ear as he felt wave after wave of violent, soul-eating pleasure rip through him. He was being fucked through the mattress, each bruising thrust making his legs twitch, toes curl and body scream for more. White stars danced in front of his eyes, and he gasped, moaning desperately and throwing his head back into the pillow as his voice grew louder and louder. He heard the lewd slapping of skin on skin, fingers tightening down on his hips and yanking them upward to drive even deeper than before.

"Fuck—FRANCIS! Yes! Hnnnnn... More!" Another ragged scream of satisfaction and pure, scorching pleasure tore from his lips.

Heat was searing through him, eating away everything until nothing was left of the world but skin, sweat and white. The ragged stream of breathless murmurs continued, pausing only to gasp and moan.

"Look at you, Arthur, screaming my name... spread for me, flushed and sexy..."

Arthur yelled again, feeling even more precum seep and dribble down his length as Francis pulled one of his twitching legs over his shoulder, slamming into his prostate dead-on and making his whole body jerk as his hips acted of their own accord, pushing him closer, making him scream louder...

"God—so good! Holy— AaaAAH! I'm—so close!" he panted, breaking off for oxygen at every other word. Francis was slamming into him again and again, groaning long and loud, and Arthur gasped when fingers wrapped around his cock to stroke in time with the thrusts. He writhed, legs twitching and spasming uncontrollably, clawing desperately at the pillow with weakened hands.

"Hnnn, oh, FUCK YES!" he yelped as Francis nailed his prostate another time, sending his nerves short-circuiting, making him jerk all over. A ragged chuckle from above him.

"You like that, Arthur?"

Another pointed slam. The heat was just too much, ripping away everything and coiling inside him, ready to snap at any second—he felt himself leak more precum, nearly a steady stream by now, losing control of his muscles—his legs were jerking, hips bucking and ass squeezing and twitching uncontrollably around Francis's rock-hard length—Arthur writhed and groaned, feeling the release coming, needing it, desperate for it, or he would die—

"FRANCIS!"

Arthur's eyes snapped open.

He was panting heavily, the covers twisted around his legs and sweat trickling down his forehead. The kitten was resting against his headboard, looking at him with curious apprehension. Arthur tried to relax as his breath came in short, ragged gasps, flopping back and fingering his cool emerald ring as he suddenly realized whose name he had been screaming—that a month ago, he would've denied ever even having such thoughts in the first place. But now... He groaned as he guiltily tried to hang on to some of the heated waves of pleasure, fading quickly even as he lay here with the sticky covers twined around him like a straightjacket and his heart thudding heavy and fast against his ribs.

But just when Arthur thought the diminishing sensations were gone, he flushed bright red as he realized exactly what damage that dream had done to him—and not only in his head. In his pants.

He was hard.

Very hard.

He sighed, looking around at the other sleeping boys in his dormitory as the gray light of predawn glowed on the horizon. Patrick was sprawled over his mattress, sacked out completely, and the other three weren't much better. Still—better safe than sorry.

"Be back in a bit," Arthur told the kitten quietly, giving its head a quick stroke, before getting up awkwardly and heading out the door.

Arthur hummed in relief and settled back against the pool wall, swishing his hand around in the water to clean it of his sticky white sperm. He'd headed to the prefects' bathroom immediately, made sure to lock the door behind him this time, and finished himself off to guilty thoughts of Francis. Oddly enough, the dream was still fresh and clear in his head, not fading like it should've been. He felt his face burning even though no one could see the inside of his mind, and besides, there was no one here except him, anyway.

Finally climbing out of the pool, Arthur stretched luxuriously and pulled a towel from the rack. The mermaid on the wall giggled at him, waving her tail a little.

Arthur glared at her. "Fuck off," he muttered, before turning away and rubbing the towel over his messy blond hair, now darkened from the water rolling in little droplets down his back. He checked his watch, to find that almost an hour had gone by. Arthur sighed, shaking his head. It was both amazing and pathetic how he could get so lost in thoughts of Francis, and not come up for what seemed like years to get a breath of reality. He really needed to stop that.

Finally pulling on his clothes and still feeling a little tingly with the aftereffects of the dream, Arthur went back up to the dormitory and emerged with the little kitten draped happily over his shoulder like a fuzzy, purring parrot. He tickled her nose absentmindedly as he made his way down the empty corridor, knowing what he had to do and dreading it immensely. If he didn't want his friendship with Francis to terminate for good this time, because Arthur wouldn't ever be able to speak to him again without blushing and stuttering, there was only one thing to do. Arthur's face flushed with embarrassment at the simple thought.

He had to tell Francis about the dream.

But then again, was there an alternative...? If Arthur didn't have to tell the frog, he wouldn't, but—

"PALM TO HEAAAAAAD!"

Arthur jumped a foot in the air.

Gil had come bounding out of nowhere, flying at him screaming his war cry like a demon from the sky. Arthur felt a hard palm come into contact with the back of his head just before Gil landed in front of him, straightening his shirt like it was the most normal thing in the world to come diving from thin air and karate chop your best friend in greeting.

They stood there for a moment. Gil finally broke the silence with his usual slightly-demented grin that always gave the notion he was about to dump a Filibuster firework down your shirt.

"Nice cat. You should name it Fritzdeugen."

He reached up to scratch behind the kitten's ears, and she nudged him happily. Arthur sighed resignedly, facepalmed and kept walking.

"No, I'm serious," Gilbert insisted, hurrying along beside him. "You have to name it Fritzdeugen!"

Again, Arthur barely withheld a defeated groan. Would someone please remind him how he'd gotten to be friends with this crazy idiot in the first place? He almost made Francis seem sane...

Oh, shit. Speaking of Francis—there he was now, sitting at the Slytherin table laughing along with his little group of fans. Not all of them were girls, and not all of them were in the same house as Francis, either. Arthur noticed Matthew in the crowd, but the shy Gryffindor quickly hurried away when he noticed Gil coming in for a landing, face bright as one of Antonio's tomatoes. Arthur felt a brief pang of sympathy for him and the hopeless, messy crush he'd gotten into, but that was quickly drowned out by the dread and humiliation he felt as soon as he was within twenty meters of Francis.

His face was flushed in embarrassment, and Arthur suddenly felt as though everyone was watching him as he nervously poked Francis's shoulder and the Frenchman looked up questioningly, blue eyes as clear and deep as ever. This observation did not help things.

Arthur cleared his throat, still blushing profusely. "Er, frog... I need to talk to you," he mumbled sheepishly.

"Ouais," Francis replied curiously, knowing instinctively that something had to be wrong. Arthur's face was flushed in embarrassment and his green eyes darted around, refusing to meet Francis's. He rose from the table, still watching Arthur with concern.

"I'll be back," he told the group of people, many of whom were eying Arthur and Francis with something bordering on awe. Another sixth year—Kiku Honda, Francis thought his name was—had a little blood trickling from his nose.

As soon as Francis turned back around, he felt Arthur's hand clamp down on his wrist and the two of them and Fritzdeugen ran away, only stopping once they were halfway up the first staircase and well away from the Great Hall.

"What happened?" Francis immediately asked, sounding worried. "Did another attack turn up?"

Arthur didn't reply, but blushed a deeper shade of scarlet when he felt the frog slip his wrist from his grip, only to lace their fingers together. Francis looked at him with concern.

"Where are we going, mon amour?"

"Somewhere the fangirls can't find us," Arthur replied sheepishly, though he left no room for argument.

Even now, he was wondering what he was getting himself into.

For some odd reason, the Room of Requirement had decided to equip itself with a bed.

Arthur's face had flushed even deeper red than Francis had thought was humanly possible, but even so, he'd led the Brit over and the two of them had settled cross-legged, sitting across from each other on the cozy comforter. Fritzdeugen purred happily, kneading the bed with her claws, before curling up into a small ball next to Francis's knee.

The only thing uncomfortable was Arthur.

Francis watched him closely for a moment, noticing how the beautiful green eyes refused to meet his own, the hands twisting tensely in his lap and the slim, unrelaxed shoulders. Something was seriously bothering him. After a full minute of total silence, Francis finally spoke.

"What's wrong, Arthur?" he asked.

The Brit took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, and forced words out of his mouth. "Promise you won't tease me?" he asked.

"Of course not," Francis replied, still confused and a little concerned.

"I... had a dream," Arthur muttered after a moment of severely awkward silence, face burning.

Francis looked at him for a second before giving him the gentle shove he needed to get going. "Oui...?"

Arthur finally met his eyes. "It was about you."

And then everything came spilling out. When the frog asked about it, Arthur even told him the details he still remembered about the sex. Soon the blush faded from his cheeks, and they were discussing this issue like two teenage girls talking about a crush on a hot guy. Suddenly it didn't seem so bad.

"Well," Francis finally concluded, looking at Arthur with a shrug. "You had a dream. That's all there is to it."

"A dream of sex with you in it," Arthur bit back, a little bit of his embarrassment and worry creeping back. He felt so dirty—who had gay, nasty, kinky dreams about shagging their best friend?

Francis sighed. "I don't think that's my fault, cher," he replied quietly. "Everyone has dreams like that at some point or another, me included. It's normal."

Arthur bit his lip, looking over at the Frenchman who was staring down at his lap, quietly contemplating something, and suddenly it struck him how handsome Francis really was, with his wavy blond hair falling around his face and blue eyes slightly glazed in thought. Before Arthur even knew what he was doing, he had crawled into Francis's lap, wrapping his arms tightly around his neck and burying his face in the warm shoulder. He let his legs rest around the taller boy's waist, needing the contact and needing the warmth. Francis's wonderful scent flooded his lungs as he was finally able to relax, running his fingers through the silky blond waves and letting his body slacken against Francis's strong chest.

Francis hugged him close.

"Dammit, frog, how do you do these things to me?" Arthur whispered, suddenly sounding very small and lonely.

"How do you mean, mon beau amour?" Francis answered quietly, rubbing soft circles into his slim back.

Arthur took a shaky breath, turning his head just enough on the warm shoulder for Francis to hear him and feeling the strong, relaxed muscles under his cheek. "Up until now, I... I always thought there was no one I could trust; not even Patrick. It just didn't feel right to talk to him about some things, and I just resigned myself to that, but... now that you're here, I'm so scared something I say will make you leave again. I don't want to be alone."

He clung to Francis tightly, not sure why he wanted so badly to kiss the frog, but knowing he shouldn't and holding himself back. Francis just hugged him back, and Arthur's stomach did an odd sort of flip when he felt a gentle kiss planted on his forehead.

"I don't either, amour," Francis whispered.

They spent a moment in silence before he shifted, carefully letting go of Arthur and feeling a little guilty when the Brit shot him a disappointed look. He slipped out from under him, crawling up toward the head of the bed and leaning back some.

Francis looked at Arthur, with his brilliant green eyes and messy blond hair, still wondering how someone could be so beautiful and yet so imperfect at the same time. He patted the bed next to him invitingly.

Arthur's heart leapt.

He smiled and moved next to Francis, hesitating a moment before lying down with his head on the frog's chest to hear his deep, strong heartbeat. It was another minute before he felt a warm arm slide around him, pulling him close against his side and rubbing gentle circles on his back. Arthur bit his lip to keep from smiling and let his green eyes slip closed, reveling in the scent of Francis; sweet, sensual roses and warm vanilla and dark, spicy cinnamon. It fit the Frenchman perfectly.

Arthur let his arm move to fall over the taller boy's chest, feeling the strength in the rise and fall of the calm breathing. Normally he would've felt self-conscious, with his skinny body against Francis's gentle strength, but at the moment he was too drowsy to care. The warmth of another body was delightfully calming.

But it was only Francis that made him feel safe.

A yawn.

Arthur stirred drowsily.

Finally he cracked open one eyelid to see the frog still awake, looking down at him and biting his lip a little, as though to hold back a grin.

"Salut, mon amour," Francis greeted quietly.

Arthur groaned and flopped his head back down on the warm shoulder. Somehow he'd managed to move in his sleep so he was lying on top of the frog, one hand loosely entwined with Francis's and the other behind his neck, while his forehead had been resting just below Francis's jaw. Fritzdeugen was curled up like a purring cushion behind Francis's head.

Arthur took one glance at her and couldn't help but laugh.

Francis turned to see what was so funny, smiling when the little kitten leaned in to lick his nose furiously. He nuzzled her back, making Arthur laugh more.

"Why hello there, petit," he murmured, looking at Arthur out of the corner of his eye. He was so beautiful when he laughed...

Fritzdeugen rrd in her high little voice and daintily stood, licking a white-splotched paw and carefully jumping off the bed, disappearing from sight.

Francis smiled and looped his arms around Arthur's waist, gazing into the green eyes that were glowing with happiness. They were even more brilliant than Francis thought he had ever seen them.

Arthur looked at him and smiled.

"How long have I been out?" he asked, voice rough from sleep.

"Only an hour," Francis replied with a little shrug, giving his waist a little affectionate squeeze. To his surprise, Arthur shifted a bit, biting his lip uncomfortably.

"Quoi?" he asked confusedly, letting his hands slide over Arthur's sides a bit.

Arthur squirmed a little more, rolling off him. "I'm ticklish, you bloody frog!"

"Are you, now?" Francis asked, a devilish glint in his eye. He pinned Arthur down to the bed with one knee, smiling deviously as he ran his hands up and down the Brit's smooth sides through the fabric of his shirt.

Arthur shivered when he reached his waist, squirming again and biting down on his lip to keep from laughing. Francis's fingers lightly teased his sensitive skin, in the only spot that tickled him like this—

Arthur giggled, squirming again, a little bead of blood rolling down his chin as he clamped his jaw shut so hard that his lower lip split under the tension.

"Francis—stop—Francis—"

But instead of stopping, Francis threw a leg over the Brit's slim hips to trap him and started tickling him relentlessly. Soon peals of Arthur's laughter echoed around the room as he squirmed and writhed under the bloody frog's grip, giggling uncontrollably and begging for him to stop. Francis was giggling too, grinning as Arthur tried to wrestle him off with arms weakened from laughter. The Brit twisted and tried in vain to get Francis to quit, cheeks flushed and tears of laughter streaming down his face by the time Francis finally stopped, more blood trickling from his split lower lip.

"I fucking hate you, you stupid wanker," Arthur muttered, but he was grinning as he said it. Francis smiled and rolled off of his hips to flop next to him on the bed, looking over at the gorgeous boy and sighing contentedly. This was the perfect moment...

Arthur reached up to wipe his bleeding lip, looking at the scarlet smear that had blotted across his palm. "Look what you did, frog," he muttered, pouting a little as he showed it to Francis.

Francis looked at the bead of blood running down his chin, feeling a tiny twinge of guilt. But then he smirked and sat up on the bed, rolling over to put his arms on either side of Arthur's head, successfully trapping him.

"I'll just have to kiss it and make it better, then," he sighed, leaning in closer. His heart was racing, jamming against his ribs with every furious beat. Arthur's green eyes were wide open, watching his every move raptly, looking slightly afraid.

Their noses were barely inches apart. Did he dare close that distance?

Oui, he did.

Francis leaned down, took a deep breath, and kissed him.

Arthur gasped as soft, warm lips came into contact with the corner of his mouth, gently kissing away the blood from the bitten place in his lip. Francis was so careful and light with his touch that it couldn't hardly even count as a kiss. Before he even realized it, Arthur was kissing back ever-so-slightly, and he prayed with all his heart Francis wouldn't notice. Luckily, the frog pulled away a mere second later, wiping the back of his hand over his lips, now covered in a little blood.

"Does that feel better now, ma chérie?" Francis asked quietly, still hovering low over Arthur, blue eyes unreadable.

Arthur looked at him for a moment, then smiled. "It does," he murmured. "Maybe there's some truth to that old saying..."

Now he was fighting the urge to throw his arms around Francis's neck and kiss him as hard as he could, but somehow Arthur managed to refrain. Instead he sat up carefully, not once looking away from the blue eyes suddenly filled with a hypnotic, mysterious intensity.

But after a minute Francis blinked and the spell was broken. He seemed to realize he was still on top of Arthur and rolled off of him, falling next to the Brit on the bed.

"We should probably get back, cher," he said. "It's almost lunchtime already; someone will notice we're gone."

Arthur nodded, licking the last of the blood from his lips. He could swear he tasted a faint, sugary sweetness where Francis had kissed him.

No, Francis hadn't kissed him. He'd kissed Arthur's lips just to be an arse. There was a difference. The kiss didn't mean anything. Did it?

"Yeah, this took longer than I planned," he muttered sheepishly, finally sitting up and standing from the bed. Francis smirked, following him and watching as he bent down to pick up Fritzdeugen. Dieu, did Arthur know how hot he was?

No, probably not. And it would most likely be best if Francis didn't focus on it either—especially not the memory of him licking that blood away. That had just been downright sexy.

He sighed, smacking himself mentally and holding open the door for Arthur. As soon as they were our in the corridor, it melted behind them, shrinking into a solid patch of weathered brick wall once more.

Francis shook his head, watching it disappear. "I'll never get used to it here," he muttered under his breath.

Unfortunately, Arthur heard him, even from a good four meters down the corridor. He turned, Fritzdeugen draped over his shoulders like a scarf, green eyes slightly narrowed and full lips swollen and red from the ravaging of his teeth. They quirked into a slight smirk, and Francis was once again left clinging to the edge of the gutter.

"What, you didn't have magical disappearing rooms in your old school?" Arthur asked jokingly, but something in his tone was cold. It wasn't right. His voice wasn't right.

Francis felt himself freeze.

Something in those green eyes was out of place, too. They were darker, almost ominous, riddled with scarlet. The same red color that Francis had known to belong to only one other person—

A person he believed to be dead.

No, a person that he knew was dead.

Fritzdeugen suddenly gave a little yelp and leapt off Arthur's shoulders as though she'd just realized he wasn't who she'd thought he was, and was clinging to a random stranger who looked like Arthur Kirkland but couldn't possibly be. She skittered back toward Francis to curl up in a shaking ball right behind his leg. He scooped her up, looking back toward Arthur quickly.

And behind him, writing itself on the wall at the end of the corridor, was another bloody poem.

Rising in forbidden hate

By the time you come, it'll be too late

Stirring deep within the night

You won't see his broken flight

Francis felt his stomach sink.

He looked back at Arthur, suddenly to find the Brit he'd always known. It was enough to make him briefly wonder if he was hallucinating.

His shoulders seemed to have relaxed, every trace of the aggressive stance gone, and the scarlet shadow in his green eyes had disappeared as quickly as it had come. He looked around briefly, gaze falling on Francis.

"W-what?" he asked, voice small and confused.

Francis took a shaky breath, setting Fritzdeugen down and slowly approaching Arthur, with forced evenness.

He put his hands on the Brit's shoulders, to see that he looked a little scared now.

"Whatever you do, mon amour, do not turn around."

He carefully pulled Arthur away down the corridor, taking his hand and breaking into a run as soon as they rounded the corner. Fritzdeugen hissed one last time at the bloody poem on the wall before slinking away after them.

"Where are we going?" Arthur asked.

Francis turned to look at him, seeing the fear in those emerald green eyes.

"We need to find Dumbledore."

Ten pages. Ten damn pages of smut and fluff. *facepalms*

God save my soul.

So, now at least they're a couple - but of course, they don't know that yet! Aah, the torture. I apologize profusely; I would've had them together and snogging a long time ago if that first 'real' kiss didn't have to come into play in the last chapters in order for them to work. Sorry! Don't kill me!

All credits for Fritzdeugen's name and Gil's war cry to my best friend; yes, you know her. The one who helped me write Boredom. You'd be amazed the crackiness we come up with at one in the morning, watching Harry Potter and giggling hysterically about Dumbledore's pimpdom.

This is an incredibly long endnote, but there's also one more thing I need to request of you: PLEASE review on how you liked the smut scene? I want to improve, so any tips or criticism is greatly, greatly appreciated. All the help I get in reviews will go into making the last scene - foreplay and all, by the way - so please, review the smut!

Okay, I'm done. Thanks for reading!

Love from Maple