“Of course,” Arthur echoes, rolling his eyes as Francis picks up his legs and settles them on his shoulders.
Francis pauses for a moment and looks down at Arthur. The softness in his eyes returns and becomes something Arthur feels like he should reach out and touch.
And then something hard presses at his ass and in, and Arthur hisses as he clutches the coverlet.
“Ça fait mal?” Francis asks, stopping his movement. Fingers stroke along his knee and thigh, and it makes Arthur quiver through the pain.
“F…fuck,” he whispers to the air, and feels Francis twitch. “C – continuer.”
Francis nods, but his face seems dubious as he continues to press in. His pauses are frequent; he presses in slow, so slow, and Arthur is about to sob from pleasure as he is filled and stretched.
He only realizes Francis has pressed all the way in when he feels hips connect with his arse, when Francis leans forward to press kisses into the hollow of Arthur’s throat. “All right?” he whispers, and his voice is a feather gently falling.
“I – I…” He shifts experimentally, bites back a cry as Francis’ cock brushes against something that sends shocks through his spine. “Fuck. Move. For the love of the Queen, move.”
Francis chuckles at this, presses his lips one last time against Arthur’s collarbone before leaning back and beginning to move.
Francis sets a steady, sensual rhythm, gyrates his hips in ways that tease Arthur and make his prick twitch.
“Talk to me, Arthur,” Francis murmurs, watching him. “Tell me what you want.”
“I – I want you to right there oh God right there please.”
Francis chuckles. “You like that?” he asks, and stops his motions completely. His smile is serene as he watches Arthur thrash and swear on the bed. This makes Arthur stop and stare right back.
“Wh-what?”
“I like this.” Francis sounds genuinely pleased, and it makes Arthur shiver to his bones. “Talking. Taking it slow. Watching your face.”
Arthur blinks up at him. “Ah…”
France leans over, takes Arthur’s cock in hand, and starts jerking him off as he kisses Arthur’s forehead. “Je t’aime,” he whispers again, and Arthur trembles because he can finally see and hear the sincerity behind those words.
Leaning back a bit, Francis picks up his pace; his hand works at a breakneck pace as his hips pick their rhythm up, rubbing against Arthur’s prostate and robbing him of any dignity he has. He grabs the headboard for stability and feels himself pleading, begging –
“Fran –g”
Francis twists his wrist just so and Arthur loses himself, coming hard over Francis’ hand and his own stomach. Through his haze, he feels something warm and thick spurting into him as well, and they keep moving until they slow, until their bodies force them to stop.
Arthur’s eyes slide closed, and his breath comes in pants that begin to even out as Francis slumps against him, and then slides to the side. Fingers are in his hair, on his skin, and it’s all very nice and warm.
“I love you,” Francis whispers, and kisses Arthur’s temple. “I love you.” His ear. “I love you.” The corner of his mouth.
Arthur has one instant to feel sorry that he’s too exhausted to reply to Francis before he’s fast asleep. ___
When Francis wakes, it’s to a stale-feeling warmth, the warmth of a space where a body once rested cooling.
Francis cracks his eyes open and sees Arthur moving about in the evening light.
He just lays there on the bed and watches Arthur move about the room, combing his hair, collecting bits of clothing onto his body (and that’s a little disappointing), grumbling to himself about wrinkles and ruined shirts, no doubt.
Francis smiles a little and watches Arthur through the slit in his eyelids. He tries to capture that silhouette moving just beyond his eyelids, because he’s not sure when he’ll get to see it again. Arthur will leave now, when he thinks Francis is still asleep.
So he’s surprised when Arthur buttons up his jacket – then makes his way to the bedside and kisses Francis on the lips. “I know you’re awake,” he whispers, smirking a little when Francis’ eyes blink wide open. “Do you really think you’re the only one who noticed my mannerisms?
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A Lack of Notion [14/?]
(Anonymous) 2009-03-13 08:36 pm (UTC)(link)Francis pauses for a moment and looks down at Arthur. The softness in his eyes returns and becomes something Arthur feels like he should reach out and touch.
And then something hard presses at his ass and in, and Arthur hisses as he clutches the coverlet.
“Ça fait mal?” Francis asks, stopping his movement. Fingers stroke along his knee and thigh, and it makes Arthur quiver through the pain.
“F…fuck,” he whispers to the air, and feels Francis twitch. “C – continuer.”
Francis nods, but his face seems dubious as he continues to press in. His pauses are frequent; he presses in slow, so slow, and Arthur is about to sob from pleasure as he is filled and stretched.
He only realizes Francis has pressed all the way in when he feels hips connect with his arse, when Francis leans forward to press kisses into the hollow of Arthur’s throat. “All right?” he whispers, and his voice is a feather gently falling.
“I – I…” He shifts experimentally, bites back a cry as Francis’ cock brushes against something that sends shocks through his spine. “Fuck. Move. For the love of the Queen, move.”
Francis chuckles at this, presses his lips one last time against Arthur’s collarbone before leaning back and beginning to move.
Francis sets a steady, sensual rhythm, gyrates his hips in ways that tease Arthur and make his prick twitch.
“Talk to me, Arthur,” Francis murmurs, watching him. “Tell me what you want.”
“I – I want you to right there oh God right there please.”
Francis chuckles. “You like that?” he asks, and stops his motions completely. His smile is serene as he watches Arthur thrash and swear on the bed. This makes Arthur stop and stare right back.
“Wh-what?”
“I like this.” Francis sounds genuinely pleased, and it makes Arthur shiver to his bones. “Talking. Taking it slow. Watching your face.”
Arthur blinks up at him. “Ah…”
France leans over, takes Arthur’s cock in hand, and starts jerking him off as he kisses Arthur’s forehead. “Je t’aime,” he whispers again, and Arthur trembles because he can finally see and hear the sincerity behind those words.
Leaning back a bit, Francis picks up his pace; his hand works at a breakneck pace as his hips pick their rhythm up, rubbing against Arthur’s prostate and robbing him of any dignity he has. He grabs the headboard for stability and feels himself pleading, begging –
“Fran –g”
Francis twists his wrist just so and Arthur loses himself, coming hard over Francis’ hand and his own stomach. Through his haze, he feels something warm and thick spurting into him as well, and they keep moving until they slow, until their bodies force them to stop.
Arthur’s eyes slide closed, and his breath comes in pants that begin to even out as Francis slumps against him, and then slides to the side. Fingers are in his hair, on his skin, and it’s all very nice and warm.
“I love you,” Francis whispers, and kisses Arthur’s temple. “I love you.” His ear. “I love you.” The corner of his mouth.
Arthur has one instant to feel sorry that he’s too exhausted to reply to Francis before he’s fast asleep.
___
When Francis wakes, it’s to a stale-feeling warmth, the warmth of a space where a body once rested cooling.
Francis cracks his eyes open and sees Arthur moving about in the evening light.
He just lays there on the bed and watches Arthur move about the room, combing his hair, collecting bits of clothing onto his body (and that’s a little disappointing), grumbling to himself about wrinkles and ruined shirts, no doubt.
Francis smiles a little and watches Arthur through the slit in his eyelids. He tries to capture that silhouette moving just beyond his eyelids, because he’s not sure when he’ll get to see it again. Arthur will leave now, when he thinks Francis is still asleep.
So he’s surprised when Arthur buttons up his jacket – then makes his way to the bedside and kisses Francis on the lips. “I know you’re awake,” he whispers, smirking a little when Francis’ eyes blink wide open. “Do you really think you’re the only one who noticed my mannerisms?