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And You Reap What You Sow	By : Lakshimata Category: +G to L > Hetalia: Axis Powers Views: 1314 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia nor make any profit out of this

Chapter List
- 1-And You Reap What You Sow
- 1
And you Reap What You Sow
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.
A/N:
I don't have much to say about this.
Warning(s): angst, explicit smut with some non-con moments and mentions of France/America. Oh some French is scattered in here as well, but it's nothing you wouldn't understand.
...
Francis walked the few steps towards England's house with a sinking and heavy heart. His steps were heavy as well and his chest nearly sagged forward – that, at times, France had to pause and catch his breath. His palms were wet. His legs felt like lead, so that each movement he made filled his body with pain. How gladly would he have sat down! Yet, this was the one confrontation he couldn't forgo. He didn't want to. France wasn't someone who gave up easily. No, he never gave up. He wouldn't ever succumb to England. Period.
The door wasn't locked, Francis noted with surprise. Then, England – a fact that had always delighted him – was a bit forgetful at times. Then again, he had nothing to fear. The last time he'd been invaded had been in 1066, at the Battle of Hastings. Since then, England had been relatively free from having his vital regions invaded. That – along with a somewhat inborn pride – gave England a sense of superiority and assuredness that few nations possessed. It delighted France because it made England so tempting. So wonderfully tempting. England was the most tempting thing France had ever met – it wasn't like France hadn't met other enticing nations. Yet, Arthur was special.
He was the one thing France wanted, but could never have.
Arthur's house was like it had always been. Clean, orderly and with the smell of black tea lingering in the atmosphere, mingling with the odour of dusty volumes (probably Milton, Francis thought or Shakespeare). However, the smell of tea was the strongest. It hung suspended in the house atmosphere like fireflies dancing above a river on a pleasant night. Oh yes, England loved tea. He set his schedule on tea. And legend had it, that England could forget everything else apart from tea.
Tea had been the final blow, Francis thought. Oh yes, tea. The one thing that Arthur loved the most had led to the loss of another thing he'd cherished immensely. How ironical. Too bad, he couldn't sympathise with Arthur on this case. No, he felt so far from sorry that it nearly made him feel bad.
Francis cracked his fist. He was getting closer and closer to his destination. A few footsteps, a few trit-trots on the creaking wooden floor and he'd finally get to confront England. France licked his lips, but then his excitement died down. It wasn't like he would be welcome with open arms.
The door to England's office was shut. France paused for a moment, drawing breath. He leaned his head against the door for a second, checking if Arthur wasn't involved in any of his odd antics – like summoning some evil spirit. Hadn't this writer – he must have been called Marlowe or something like that – touched upon that very issue? Really, France thought, shaking his head. The English and their superstitions.
Then again, Arthur wouldn't have been himself if it hadn't been for those very superstitions.
When he finally opened the door, the first thing France perceived was the strong smell of dust. Francis quickly gathered that the window hadn't been opened for days probably.
England didn't see him at once, for he was facing the wall. He was mumbling to himself as well. Or as France wisely gathered, talking to some spirit – it could also be a faerie.
Indeed, Arthur wasn't talking to any faerie. He wasn't summoning anything. He'd been here – for bloody God knew how long. Ever since he'd come back from that despicable war, England had done nothing but stare at that blasted wall.
Arthur turned around slowly. Nearly gingerly. When his face met Francis', his jaw clenched and those thick eyebrows of his furrowed. His face had also gone terribly pale – so pale that England nearly appeared to look like the ghost of Hamlet's father. Indeed, he looked like shit. Arthur, who was usually the very epitome of neatness, had never looked more haggard. His eyes were bloodshot, the clothes he was wearing were in disarray and his hair tousled. A bottle of what Francis suspected to be rum lay on the desk. It was empty.
France didn't even smile. He had no reason to smile. England didn't speak for a while. Instead, he simply continued to glare, as if that glare itself was sufficient to say everything that needed to be said. And maybe it was enough because there wasn't anything France could really say.
"Get the bloody hell out," Arthur spat out, having spoken before France had even had the chance to say anything. His voice was full of contempt. Yes, contempt. But there was something else. Something that France could only acknowledge as despair.
Francis simply closed the door, shaking his head. "I'm not going anywhere, mon ami."
A bitter laugh. Then, there was a brief sound of smashing, and something being tossed against the wall. The bottle of rum had just missed Francis head by an inch. Yet, when France felt a hissing sort of pain – he touched his cheek. When he brought his hand before his eyes again, he could see blood. No, the bottle hadn't missed. Arthur had just been gracious. If he'd really wanted to, he could have aimed it at France's face.
Oui, he thought, that England sure knew how to land the right hit. Too bad, he hadn't managed that well at Yorktown. Too bad he'd hadn't been as unflinching then.
"Don't call me that. You have no right to call me that, bastard."
France couldn't protest at that. He had no right. Since he'd helped Alfred to gain independence. Then, he didn't see how England had the right to fling bottles at him. France had only done what he'd believed to be good. He'd only done what he'd believed to be right.
He'd only done what he'd needed to do. France didn't care whether England liked it or not.
"I don't want to talk to you, git. Get out of my sight," England said, this time even more coolly than before. He crackled his knuckles, reaching for the gun he kept hidden. But then it dawned upon him that he'd forgotten to have it loaded. Bloody hell, indeed.
"Or what?" France asked, challenging England. He bared his breast, waiting for England to come on at him.
"I'll- kill you. I'll bloody kill you," Arthur said, his green eyes glinting dangerously. France didn't step back. He wasn't scared. Not anymore. He'd been ready for this.
"Even if you do, I'd die a happy man," France admitted, not hiding the jubilant tone in his voice. His voice grew even more sardonic when he continued," because I got to defeat you. After tasting defeat against you, I've finally seen you lose."
Yes, finally. He'd seen England lose to that still so young America. It was funny and ironical. And beautiful, utterly beautiful.
"Oh and you've lost so much. I knew how you doted over that petit Alfred. It must be cruel – it must be so terribly, terribly cruel – to have lost him to me."
Arthur looked up, not fully comprehending the implication of Francis' words. Oh, it wasn't like he was that daft. He just couldn't believe. Refused to.
"You didn't-"
"I didn't do what, mon cher?" France demanded innocently, moving closer to the desk. He leaned down, his breath – he smelled like wine – fanned England's cheek. He was close. So close that England could have struck him. Yet, the impulse to do so was not there yet. Not until he'd verified that France was serious.
It wasn't like Francis hadn't pulled his leg before. This could just be another of his jokes.
"You wouldn't – you didn't... don't tell me you —!" England couldn't finish that statement. The horror of it – the unspeakable horror – fell over him like a ton of bricks. Oh, he had expected France to make the moves on America. After all, Francis wasn't the sort of man who wouldn't waste an opportunity like that. And yet-
"But I did. I fucked him."
Francis nearly felt a pang of regret forming in his chest when he saw Arthur's face take on an aspect of total mortification. He'd seen so many emotions on the man's face before – glee, disappointment, anger and hatred. He'd seen them all, provoked at least the majority of these emotions …and yet, he'd never seen Eng- Arthur – look that positively devastated.
England didn't want to believe. No, it could not be. It could not – it just could not! Not Alfred. Not his Alfred. He stood up. His trembling hand grabbed hold of the corners of his desk. His hands shook. The desk shook as well. Images attacked Arthur's brain—he could see it all too clearly.
Francis' head between Alfred's legs, bobbing up and down. Sweat was rolling down Alfred's forehead. And his fingers were tugging at Francis' loose strands. He was begging for more. Begging for that wicked – skilled – tongue to give him more. More and more until he was engulfed by a cloud of pleasure.
Arthur knew how Francis' mind operated. He knew how France could wrap nearly everyone around his little finger. He knew. Not only because he'd experienced it himself, but because he'd heard it from others.
(France was a charmer, bewitching and deceivingly sweet. He promised you the world, lured you in like a siren's song – only to crush you under his fist when you did not look).
He hadn't cared about France and his various conquests before. But now, it made him feel sick because this was was Alfred they were talking about.
Alfred moaning while Francis entered him slowly until he was buried balls-deep. Then, he moved. Slowly, tortuously.
The imagery, spun by some masochistic and delirious part of his brain, haunted Arthur. He kept replaying it over and over again. He put his hand over his mouth. He could feel the bile coming to his throat.
Fury struck England. He gnashed his teeth. He'd wipe that self-satisfied grin out of France's face. He'd make him pay bit for bit – for what he'd done.
Before Francis knew what was happening, he found himself smashed against the wall. It hurt. He swore that – if he'd been a lesser man – his ribs would have cracked. So fierce and unexpected this attack had been. Arthur wasn't weak. He'd never been. Arthur was strong.
"How dare you defile him? How dare your filthy hands debauch him like that?!" England screamed, gripping France hard by the shoulders. "How bloody dare you! How -"
England was shaking. Francis could feel the man's fingernails sinking deeper into the material of his cloak. If he'd worn anything made out of a thinner material, there would have been marks bruising his skin now. Not that he'd have minded. Francis' body had been covered in bruises before. This was nothing.
Arthur was crying.
Arthur had never cried for him like that. He'd never been that upset over him. It hurt. Francis took a deep breath, trying his best to ignore the tightening in his throat.
And yet that didn't stop him from talking. It was an impulse, a necessity. To not talk was to die slowly, and he didn't wanted to die. Moreover, he wasn't a kind person. Seeing Arthur cry was maybe like feeling someone prick you with a needle. Yet, it wasn't enough to stop him. Not enough. If Arthur had cried for him – now, that would have been something else.
"He wanted it. Alfred was the one who begged for it."
And he had begged. France had him begging quite thoroughly. He'd teased him until America had surrendered so finally and completely that it had surprised France himself.
"He wouldn't-"
Alfred isn't like that," Arthur told himself – more like chanted to himself. He'd taught him better. He'd taught him not to sell himself like that. And now – no matter how hard he tried – England couldn't banish the images out of his head.
"But he did. Mon Dieu, he did."
"Isn't it enough that you helped him to defeat me?" Arthur yelled, moving away from France. He couldn't bear to meet his eyes. It was humiliating. And the war had started so well for England. He might have won, had it not been -
Had France not interfered. Had he never been present at the battle of Chesapeake.
It wasn't so much the fact that France had betrayed him. England had expected him to. He had taken Canada away from him, after all. It wasn't as if Arthur hadn't expected retribution. And yet, he'd not expected France to join in so readily – had not expected Alfred to actually seek out his help. He'd not expected a lot of things. Maybe, that had been his greatest fault.
I always treated Arthur like a child. By the time, I realised he wasn't – it was too late. Too late.
Too late. Those words would haunt him for the remainder of his existence. What would him haunt for rest of his lifetime as well would be that France had touched Alfred. Taken his virginity.
"Why did you have to touch him? Why couldn't you just leave it be?" Arthur inquired again, his voice breaking. He didn't see what profit France had gained from doing what he'd done. If England had learnt anything about America, it was that he didn't cherish the things that had been done for him. If anything, he tended to spit in your face after you'd bestowed all your love and affection on him.
France didn't grace Arthur with any answer, though he knew what to say. Had known all along.
It hadn't been lust (maybe a little curiosity at best). Nor had it been so much the desire to see Alfred lie underneath him, writhing in pleasure. There were other nations he was far more interested in breaking like that. He hadn't had any real interest in Alfred. The boy was simple, childlike even. Boisterous and way too proud.
Nothing like Arthur. Arthur who was a bundle of contradictions, who thrilled him like no other...
The very same Arthur who only had eyes for that cretin. For that stupid America. And France hated it.
France hated Alfred with every fiber of his soul. He hated that Arthur couldn't see that this little brat wasn't any good for him, that he'd never be what Arthur wanted him to be. He hated that ever since that idiot had come into being, England had lost his senses.
"You're a connard, mon ami. A real fool," France said, his voice velvety and seductive. A chill ran down England's spine. That voice. He tried to ignore the effect it had on him, but it didn't work. He felt his knees buckle as desire shot through his body. France was still towering over him, pressing Arthur against the desk. England could feel the wood digging more than uncomfortably into his backbone. Francis lowered his hands, reaching Arthur's groin. And then he touched him – there were few people who dared to touch Arthur.
Arthur hissed. He tried to slap France's hand away, but it was too good. Way too good. Those skilled hands were too good at rubbing. Before he knew it, Arthur was leaning into the touch. Francis was towering over him now, and England was seated on his desk now.
France only smiled bitterly. As repressed as England was, he couldn't deny that he liked this.
"You know, he felt so good. So tight. So very tight and hot while I fucked him into oblivion," France whispered into England's ear, still massaging the man's now evident arousal through his pants. He squeezed Arthur's cock, and sighed happily when he heard the man let out a hiss. Oh, he hadn't lost his touch.
But his grin faded when Arthur's foot kicked him – not gently at all – into his groin. Francis' scream pierced the silence, and he his hand fall from Arthur's intimate area. France backed against the wall, massaging his wounded vital regions.
"Don't dare touch me again," Arthur warned, hands clutching the edge of the desk. His face was flushed. Strands of hair fell on his forehead, obscuring part of his bushy eyebrows.
But France wasn't that easily beaten. Nor he was broken that quickly either. With alarming swiftness, he was on his feet again. When his eyes met Arthur's, he wasn't grinning any longer. The playfulness, which had been lighting up in his eyes earlier, was gone as well. It had been replaced by a sardonic look.
Arthur froze. He knew what that look meant. He'd seen it before.
Francis kissed Arthur, harshly. But England bit at his underlip suddenly, so hard that it drew blood. France hissed in pain and broke the kiss. He looked at England with anger. It cost him all his self-control to not tackle that bastard. How dare he!
Blood was running down England's mouth. It was probably France's blood. Arthur swiped his tongue over his blood-smeared lips; the blood tasted bitter. Not sweet. It tasted nothing like wine. France had once said – in jest – that his blood tasted like sweet wine.
What a wanker.
Francis grinned smugly. So Arthur wanted to do this the hard way. Francis wiped the blood from his mouth with his hand. Fine with him. He'd do anything that was necessary. It wasn't like he was beyond using dirty tricks. And Arthur, even if he was putting on a good display of strength now, was in a weakened state. Francis smiled impishly – nearly cruelly – as he pulled out a leather strap from his pockets. He always kept it there for special purposes. Arthur frowned.
What the hell was this git planning? It couldn't be-
Francis used Arthur's surprise to really tackle him this time. And, while Arthur did put on a good show, it didn't take much for Francis to gain the upper hand. Sooner than they'd both expected, Arthur's hands were tied and he was facing the desk. Francis pushed him further against it, so hardly that Arthur groaned in pain.
"I didn't do it for glory. Or because I was expecting anything from that brat," France said, twisting Arthur's arm so cruelly that the other nation groaned in pain. "In fact, I think we spent more money on this little war than we should have."
England groaned, trying to break free. But the leather strap France had bound on his wrist kept him in place. It had really been a moronic idea to drink that much he realised now.
"Then why? Why?"
"Oh Arthur, don't you think I knew how much you wanted that boy? How you longed-" France undid England's trousers, letting them slip to the floor, "to touch him? To take him as yours?"
Arthur's eyes widened for a moment. Francis got it all wrong. He didn't want Alfred like that. No, not like that. Alfred had been like a little brother to him. He'd wanted to protect him from all evil. Arthur had wanted Alfred to look up to him. But that had turned out all wrong, hadn't it?
Alfred hadn't needed protection. Still, Arthur had insisted on his needing it. Because he'd been so young and inexperienced. No, that was wrong. Alfred had been a quick learner. He didn't need England. Not anymore.
Because -
It was raining then. Arthur felt the raindrops drench his skin. Water drops fell down his forehead, past his nose and wetted his lips. But that didn't matter. Neither did the filth that his body was covered in matter. The mud was something he could wash away. He could wipe the rain away as well.
It didn't matter. He'd been through worse before. He'd seen, tasted and heard worse. Alfred wasn't a towering figure. He wasn't someone England couldn't defeat.
Yet, those eyes ... Eyes that once looked up at him full of admiration and affection were now nearly mocking. They mocked Arthur in the disappointment they showed.
And while Alfred – or was it America now? - looked down on him like that, that was when Arthur had realised that he loved him. That he never wanted to let him go. He understood that letting him go was like being torn in half.
And, even if England could wipe away the water and get rid off the mud stains, he'd never gain that part back again. Because once your heart was broken, it could never be fixed again. A crack always remained.
"I didn't-" Arthur started, this time not trying to wring free from France's grasp. It didn't matter anymore.
Francis just huffed. He didn't buy it. He didn't buy a word of England's protests (didn't because he'd seen it with his own eyes, had seen how England's green eyes had lighted up for Alfred. Him and no one else).
"But you did. You wanted him. You still want him. More than anything else. And it – it's disgusting."
Oh, he'd known Arthur for centuries. Centuries that had passed by like a storm, leaving nothing but confusion and disappointment in its wake. Other nations had fallen. But he'd seen England rise again and again.
England's backside was bared to him now. For a while, he just enjoyed – appreciated – the sight, for Arthur was still struggling and his whole body was wiggling. And that included his ass. Tempting, tempting.
Without any further ado. France stuck a finger into the man's hole. Arthur gasped. He wasn't sure whether it was out of pain or surprise.
"I'm not like you, Francis. I would have never taken advantage of someone like you -"
"Don't lie to me, Arthur. You know that's cowardice, non?"
England didn't ask France to stop. The shock of being called a coward shook him too deeply. He wasn't one. Or was he? If he'd been truly strong, he'd have -
What would I have done?
He felt another finger inserted into his asshole. The pain was acute. It stung. It had been a while since he'd succumbed to someone (and that had only been one person. The very person who was now doing it to him again). He bit his underlip, tore the delicate skin there and felt the blood trickle down his lips. Some of it trickled past his chin. England didn't wipe it away with his tongue. He knew that France liked it when he looked like this. That asshole had always gone for such debased perversity.
Arthur closed his eyes, praying that he wouldn't hiss out. That would have been beneath him, truly. France didn't need to know how much this was affecting him. Then, it didn't matter anymore. France had defeated him already. Even so, England wanted to keep that small shred of pride. France didn't have to know that this was killing him.
But France knew. Oh did France know. It filled him with pleasure to see how Arthur was writhing on that desk, gasping and shuddering because of him. He twisted his fingers, earning a shout that could have nearly been a moan. Time to add another. Time to see how much it took to make England beg. He wanted England to come undone before his eyes – and only his.
"Stop-" Arthur gasped out again, but his voice turned into a groan as he felt a cool hand grip his cock. France's hand was so cold, so coarse. His fingernails were long and sharp. And they scraped – scratched – the head of his cock none-too-gently whenever his hand pumped. Upwards. Downwards. Over and over again.
France didn't stop there. This wasn't even the beginning. He used his free hand to pinch Arthur's still covered nipples, squeezing unmercifully.
He stroked harder, letting his slightly sweaty hands go and up down the already aroused erection. Protest and struggle as he might, France knew that England wanted this. His body betrayed him. And even if he didn't want it, Francis would ensure – once he was done with him – that Arthur would beg to be taken again and again. Until the end of time.
"You've always been such a liar."
England didn't say anything. He screwed his eyes shut and let France do what he wanted. It was true. He didn't want Francis to stop. Why, it filled England with utmost pleasure to think that by having France take him, he'd be able to wash away all the imprints that Alfred had left on the man's body. By having Francis take him, Alfred would become no more than a shadowy fingerprint.
Take me. Take me like you took him, it ran through Arthur's mind. Make me bleed.
Francis didn't wait long. Not bothering with his clothes for once, he hastily wrestled free from the trousers that covered his already throbbing arousal. The respective and offensive garment was carelessly thrown on the wooden floor, joining England's previously tossed away pants as well. Lubrication wasn't needed. As far as he was concerned, he'd given Arthur enough of that. Besides, he was too impatient to waste another precious moment on fruitless foreplay.
Oh bloody hell, England thought, he's going to tear me in half. He bit even more fiercely on his lips. Gnawing on already torn and bloody skin. Francis entered him in one go – his cock was fully sheathed within him. And it hurt – it was the scorching pain of something hard and big being thrusted maliciously into a tight channel. It was a disgusting metaphor; however, he couldn't think of anything else to explain that sensation. After all, France was pretty big, bigger than he'd remembered him to be. England swore that there was blood running down his thighs. The bastard – that berk – had not even bothered to ease his way into him.
And yet, Arthur's cock was leaking with pre-cum. And yet, sweat was soaking his body while his heart was beating feverishly in his chest. And yet, his body, flamed up like a furnace, wanted more. What was more – France had never noticed it – but England's hands had freed themselves from the leather straps. He was no longer bound. Any time, and he could punch his way out of this situation.
But before that, Arthur decided to play along. Just for a bit.
"You're so tight, cheri," France uttered admiringly, sounding hoarse. It wasn't only tight but hot. Francis' grip on Arthur's hips grew even tighter. He'd forgotten how wonderful this felt.
"Will you start moving or are we to remain like this till the end of time?" Arthur suddenly spoke out, voice coming out firm. Firmer than France had expected it to. But he shook his head. He should have remembered. This was England – and he'd always been strong. In some way, even impenetrable.
"You English are so -"
"Insufferable?" Arthur helpfully added. And then – much to Francis surprise – tore himself away from France. He winced a bit as he felt the other's man cock, which had still been deeply seated within him, leave his anus. His eyes could see Francis' penis now, red and throbbing. England thought it nearly pitiable. He felt pride swell within him. After all, he'd done this. Made Francis lower himself like this. Yes, he could see that France was half mad with want. Arthur smiled. Then, using his hands as support, sat down on the desk. Then, his eyes met France's. This was an open challenge.
"Do it now – or I'll pummel you to death."
"Wicked." France licked his lips. But he wasn't pleased. When England had pushed him away, France had nearly felt like one of those flighty poets, and he'd have used the phrase "banished from paradise", only that he hadn't even had the chance to taste sanctuary. England had pushed him away before that. Feeling angry, he spanked Arthur's ass and entered him even more ruthlessly than he'd done before.
Arthur hissed out – the intrusion was more forceful than he'd expected. If he'd not been relaxed, it would have felt like being—England preferred not to think about it. Because it wasn't worth it. Instead, he focused on shifting his hips and forcing France to move. And move he did.
"It's funny how I -"
Arthur looked up at him with a hateful look and Francis' words died down his throat. So yes, he'd had America. America had begged him, pleaded him to take him with all his skill (Francis had enough of that skill that made men groan and women scream wantonly).
"Don't talk about Alfred—" England hissed out, anger flaring up in him. His fingernails scraped down Francis' back and he spat on his face. "You don't own him."
France, still pounding in and out of England's body, only smirked. He wiped the spit out of his face with his hand, smirk never leaving his face. "No. He's not mine."
England's green eyes clouded with distrust. He could already sense it on France's lips – he'd bring out another slap on his ego. He'd not have it. He'd not have it. Arthur prayed that something akin to a miracle would happen. Like Francis suddenly becoming mute. Or him developing something like compassion. Sadly, and much to England's chagrin, that never occurred.
Then again, it wasn't like Arthur had ever showed compassion towards him. At least, France would have said so. Therefore, he didn't shut up, didn't hold his tongue. Even if he knew that this was hurting Arthur.
"But he was never yours, either."
England remained silent. Even if he felt like a spike had been pierced through his heart. He felt cold all over. Numbness was taking over his soul, even though he was currently being fucked. His body was hot, his stomach was filled with – not butterflies, maybe – but something he couldn't decipher. Something that made him feel fluttery.
"No," France said, pulling his manhood out of Arthur's twitching hole before slamming back in with cruel swiftness," and you were never his either. You ... belong ... to ... "
Me, he wanted to say. You belong to me – only me.
But that would have been baring his soul and heart to Arthur. And Arthur, even if his heart was breaking into pieces for another man, would have not shown him any mercy. Even if Arthur was under him now - legs wrapped around his waist and body arching upwards - he would never be his. France could have this. He could pound into him over and over again until they both came undone.
And yet, he'd never have what he really wanted. Because he only had England temporarily. Worst thing was Arthur didn't even know how much Francis needed – craved – for his attention. Because if he had, he would never allowed Francis to take him like this. So yes, Arthur allowed himself to be fucked– allowed him all this, but that was all.
I'm nothing to Arthur
The sickening realisation poured over Francis like hot candle-wax, seeping into his skin with poisonous venom. He shuddered. If it hadn't been for the pleasure – the mind-numbing heat and tightness of Arthur – he would have cried. He wasn't going to last long. He could feel England's walls clenching around his cock. Arthur was moaning as well, and it was not beautiful. They were more grunts than moans too, but it was at least a reaction.
Arthur's toes curled. The desk was shaking underneath him. France pulled out, then entered him again. In and out. The vicious cycle continued. All Arthur could do was gasp. Sickening – to him, this was utterly sickening – pleasure filled his body, starting somewhere in his stomach and spreading over his body like a fever.
This wasn't about Alfred anymore. Maybe it was, but another part of it was about -
England didn't really know what it was about. Maybe, this made him feel better about himself. After all, it wasn't lost on him that France desired him in one way or the other. He doubted that the man felt anything like love for him. Yet, it wasn't like he didn't know that Francis wanted to possess him. So, he gave him just that, gave him a taste of what it meant to own him. Only to mock him about it later (he'd spit in his face, tear his lungs out later on. Oh yes, he would).
Because England would pay him back for it. For humiliating him like this.
Even if it was flattering. Flattering to have this being done to him. As much as it was sickening. Arthur knew that, once the haze passed by, he'd hate himself for this. He knew that he would spend hours repenting this. Then, this was what Arthur wanted. A reason to hate Francis even more. A reason to hate himself even more. It was with that on his mind that Arthur came, screaming all the while. During that time, he didn't even notice that tears were streaming down his face.
Oh, Alfred.
Francis did. An impulse made him want to kiss the tears away, but then he understood. Or better, he heard Arthur mouth those two words. Of course, Francis thought. Of course.
It's not as if I could break him that easily.
It was over. Francis pulled out, leaving part of his semen inside of Arthur. His stomach was covered with the fruit of his labour – England had come all over him. France wiped the cum away with a napkin, which he'd gotten as present from one of the women he'd wooed at court once.
He didn't even bother to look up at Arthur. Arthur wasn't looking at him anyway. He heard the shuffle of clothes and an awkward cough. Evidently, the other man was dressing up, trying to forget what had just happened. Francis swallowed. His throat felt awfully dry. When his eyes met Arthur's briefly, he saw with perfect clarity how things stood between them.
Francis didn't say anything, and Arthur never stopped him from leaving. So, he shut the door with a bang, leaving everything behind as it had been before. Even if it was a lie. Already the world was changing around them. America was a new country with new ideals. France knew that those ideals were dangerous, spreading around like a wildfire. He knew that – sooner or later – things that had been taken for granted once would crush under the weight of their sins.
And yet, he knew that Arthur – obstinate Arthur – wouldn't ever change.
In the end, Francis knew he'd not gained anything.
--
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And You Reap What You Sow