Nothing Hurts Like...

Author's Notes: This was written for a challenge on the Hetalia Kink Meme, but I really want to get back into writing, so I'm posting it here as well. Hope you enjoy.

I do not own these characters, nor do I make any money from writing about them. All credit goes to Himaruya Hidekazu for creation of Axis Powers Hetalia. There also some lyrics to the Bush song "Mouth."

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Francis tugged at his bonds experimentally, testing the quality and strength of his captor’s cords. He tilted his head, feeling his long hair slide against his cheek and neck, brushing past his shoulder as he slowly moved, trying to feel out the floor with his knees. His hands flexed open and closed at the small of his back, but the movement only cramped muscles in his shoulders and didn’t seem likely to release him.

If he stared hard enough, he could see vague shapes through the soft cloth covering his eyes, brushing against his eyelashes. Unlike the cord around his wrists, the blindfold was soft, sweet, not crushing or holding. It was probably meant to slip off if he moved too much, which, of course, he would. In time.

Out of the silence came a sound, repetitive, jarring, perfect.
Clop, clop, clop.

The sound of lightly heeled boots strolling confidently towards him, walking with an air of importance and grace. No hurry, just an eloquent expression of the wearer’s intention.

A door slammed open somewhere, making Francis start despite his determination to remain unmoved by the dramatic entrance. He tried to turn his head toward the sound of approaching feet, tilting his whole body so as to present a pleasant image. He was, after all, very concerned with how he looked, whether or not he could visually assess himself. He smiled, strong white teeth standing out against his bruised lip.

The Frenchman waited for something to happen, tilting his head, questioning. He could feel his captor there, standing just before him, probably seething at the pleasant smile fixed on his handsome face. The heat gave him away. Where the stone room, and Francis, were delightfully cool, the man before him radiated heat like the very sun.

“Bon soir, Moussieur. Or is it morning now? I really have no idea, you see.” He let the words flow out of his mouth, voice deep and seductive. A moment of nothing passed and he felt movement. A strong hand slapped across his face, a fierce backhanded throw that was made slightly more bearable by the soft glove on that cruel hand. The blindfolded man only smiled again, spitting out what was probably blood and ran his tongue over his lip. He could taste it there, warm, coppery. He made a show of swallowing it up, licking it and enjoying the abuse.

A foot pressed upon his back, forcing him to sprawl across the cold stone ground or break his spine. He lay there, cheek against the rough ground, trying to figure out how tall those heels were. From the sound of the footsteps, they sounded almost flat, but to feel it there, pressed against his naked chest.

“I don’t want to sound rude, but I very much wish to lick your boots.” The mentioned footwear dug into his back further, pulling a hiss from him as the toe bore into the muscles of his shoulder blades. The other boot, the right, he thought, was pressed against his face. He breathed in the leathery scent, rubbed his cheek against the heel, the toe, the eyelets along the front.

“Well then,” his captor finally spoke, his accented voice full of a smugness that Francis could almost taste in the air. “You had better get on it.”

The Frenchman sighed in relief, pink tongue darting out to taste the leather, dragging along the top of the beautifully shaped shoe. He pressed the soft appendage against the flat side panels, poked at the eyelets, letting out a small keen as he tried to scoot closer. The foot on his back did not allow him. Somewhere above him, Francis could hear soft pants from another’s mouth. He imagined the bright look in those green eyes as he watched the bound man nearly fellatio his footwear.
Suddenly the pressure was gone, and the other boot, thoroughly covered in saliva, moved out of reach as well. He whimpered, the sound still low and sensual; controlled into the perfect expression of himself. Something screeched as it was dragged along the floor, the noise horrible and grating on his ears, but then he could feel the presence of his abuser near him again.

“Come closer, Francis,” he called, his voice deeper, sensual. Francis obeyed, raising to his knees, ignoring his protesting back as he scooted across the rough floor toward the siren’s voice calling to him. His outstretched nose touched a knee, his lips felt the cuff of boot just below. He pulled one shoulder forward to feel next to the legs he had discovered, making out the shape of a horizontal pad and a vertical slat to either side. A chair.

The legs moved, shifting until Francis was kneeling, his spine so straight he was almost bent over backward by the unyielding pressure of a toe beneath his chin. He breathed in, calmly, smiled again. The foot shifted, toe drawn away and heel digging into his collarbone painfully. The Frenchman let out a moan, unable to keep it in anymore.

“Angleterre,” he whispered, “M’aime. Let me see you.” He did not ask. He did not beg. He would, in time, but he was yet at that level, reduced.

The leather heel disappeared and there was a sharp tug on his hair and the blindfold slipped free, uncovering his cobalt eyes to a sight he could not have conjured in his dreams.

Arthur Kirkland, Mr. prim and proper, sat cross legged in a chair that, despite its size, he made a throne of. Tight pants tucked into the leather boots, gorgeous black things with a sizable heel that shone healthily. His chest was bare, but there was a coat draped over the back of the chair, and a white collar perched at his neck, black ribbon tying it together. Matching cuffs on his wrists and a smirk that could start blood pumping made Francis smile appreciatively at his subjugator.

The small, square window in the wall lit him from behind, cast perfect shadows on his face and body. He moved, the bit of light glinting off an object in Arthur’s hand, calling attention to it.

“Well, Francis,” Arthur said slowly, slowly slapping the crop against his opposite palm in demonstration. He leaned forward, grasping the Frenchman’s chin and gently pressing their lips together. “What do you have to say about my methods now? What hurts the most?”

“Ah… Nothing hurts like your mouth,” he said, leaning up to catch the startled blonde’s lips again, smirking as he pressed his tongue towards its goal.

“You gave me this, made me give. You will not break me.”
Arthur pulled back gently, the smile on his face devilish as he grasped that handsome face again.

“Just what I like to hear.”
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“Beg,” he commanded, voice light with amusement as he looked down at the Frenchman sprawled out before him, skin slick with sweat, panting each breath. Cobalt eyes flashed up at him but no words accompanied the gesture. That obnoxious smirk graced those bloody lips, defying Arthur’s will with the slightest effort.

The crop came down again against his back, pulling a strangled moan from his throat, the sound breathy and pained and needy. A whimper escaped his lips before being replaced once again with pants and heavy breathing. He was good at being silent, and he was amazing at vocalizing his pleasure.

Francis flexed his arms, knowing he couldn’t escape the bonds at this wrists, but knowing what he looked like, face pressed against the harsh stone, body in a aesthetically arranged crumpled heap, muscled shifting under his skin… He glanced up again, letting the burning desire he felt into his eyes, directing at his captor and feeling tremendously smug as h watched a shiver roll up Arthur’s body.

He flexed his spine, pushing his chest further against the floor, raising his hips in a roll that, were he blind and stupid, Arthur would probably still understand. Francis heard the catch of breath as Arthur watched him squirm, tilting his hips and rising to his knees so as to make the offer clear.

Fuck me he wanted to say, let the words tumble out of his mouth on the next moan to pass his lips. He said it with his body, in his movements, the way he panted and the glimmer in his eyes as h looked over his shoulder and rolled his hips again.

“Doesn’t sound like begging to me,” Arthur said casually, hitting the crop against his back again, harder this time. The leather tool trailed softly, gently along his spine, almost tickling him before it pulled away and another blow struck against him.

“Mon Dieu,” Francis whispered, his voice deep and pained, full of pleasure. Something crashed against a far wall and suddenly those gloved hands were touching him, grasping his hips and shoving him down. Knees fell to his sides, pressed against the top of his trousers, and Arthur’s sinful tongue was touching his ear, tracing it, drawing the tender flesh into his mouth to taste. He wanted to struggle, throw the smaller man off of him, but his hands were still—

The cord holding his wrists painfully at his back tugged, jerked, and then slipped free at Arthur’s pull. Francis smiled, feeling his blood pumping in his veins, felt the strength in him, and moved.

Arthur let out an indignant cry as Francis rolled his body and then twisted, pulling the smaller man beneath him and putting all the weight of his heavily muscled body on top of him. Those green eyes, so bright and full of anger glared up at him, topped by his heavy eyebrows drawn down in a scowl. Francis leaned down to kiss them, to prove he had no problem with the odd imperfections in his friend. Arthur leaned up in the same moment, squeezed his eyes shut, and head butted against Francis’s forehead.

Francis fell back, cradling his face in both hands, mouth open in disbelief. A warm body slammed into his chest, driving him down onto his sore back and pinning him to the ground again. He tried to struggle without the use of his hands and found the smaller man sitting on his chest, huffing angrily, face flaming. Francis felt his nose and eyes one last time, assuring himself they were uninjured, and smiled again, his lips stretching slowly into the pose that most annoyed his Arthur.

A hand fisted in his wavy, golden hair forced his head back, exposing his throat. Arthur shifted, scooting up Francis’s bare chest until he was seated on his collarbone, knees holding him up so as not to crush the blonde man. His gaze positively burned along Francis’s skin, heating him and making his blood boil. The Englishman was the sun, and Francis moaned as those hands tugged roughly at his hair.

“Ah, mon amour,” he called breathlessly, hands reaching up his own chest to cradle the perfect buttocks against his chest. “If you are ready to hear me beg, I think I have found my voice.” The man above him stilled, his breathing deep and even as if steeling himself for something painful or shocking.

“Go on,” Arthur replied, his voice tense. He sat up straighter, as if that could pull him away from the Frenchman’s questing grasp. Francis squeezed his hands, enjoying the little start of shock that ran up Arthur’s spine.

“S’il vous plait, Angleterre,” Francis moaned blissfully, smile still stretching his lips. “Please come in my mouth.” His smile was dazzling, outrageous.

Arthur’s breath caught, made him choke a little before his hands gripped at the edge of his pants, fumbling at the button. Francis’s strong hand gripped the band from the back, hooking his fingers around the edge and pulling down to reveal creamy, obscenely pale skin. He rose back to his knees, letting his pants slip down his hips to rest against his thighs.

Francis licked his lips as he watched those soft pants slide low, hungrily eying the very happy trail of light hair pointing like a sign from God to his goal. Arthur’s erection slipped free from its confines and all Francis could think was that he very much appreciated that the Englishman hadn’t bothered to wear underwear. He leaned forward, flicking his tongue over the head, relishing in the small sound that escaped Arthur’s lips.

“Now, mon cher,” he said softly, lips pressed against the warm flesh, licking lightly at the sensitive skin. “I do hope you will be gentle with me as--”

Arthur grabbed his hair, dragging the Frenchman’s face to his cock, nudging at his still smiling lips, demanding. Francis sighed happily, running his tongue quickly over his lips to wet them before Arthur’s length was touching the back of his throat. Francis’s eyes glittered in amusement as he watched his lover’s flushed face, his angry demeanor, as he grasped desperately at long blonde hair and thrust into his mouth.

Francis tilted his head back, allowing Arthur to position his head wherever he willed, constricting his throat and running his tongue along the warm flesh in his embrace. He fought the urge to gag, ruthlessly squashed it, and began to hum.

“Damn you,” Arthur moaned, his limbs shaking, as he tried to keep balance on legs that did not seem keen on holding him up. He pulled out of Francis’s wet, wonderful, beautiful mouth with a wet pop and scooted backward over the bare chest to reseat himself in Francis’s lap, grinding down against the bulge in his trousers. His hands pulled at the wavy blonde hair, forcing Francis to sit up to meet him.

Their mouths crashed together with a fierceness that rivaled their wars, with passion and heat and something that Francis was unable to properly name. If he said c’est amour he would be wrong, but to deny it would be equally mistaken. Arthur’s tongue stroked at his lips, letting out a shaky breath, and Francis wondered if he could taste himself there.

“You finally make me beg and now you will not even grant my wish?” Francis asked against Arthur’s hair as the smaller man dipped his head to nip and lick at the Frenchman’s sweaty neck. “Vous êtes cruel, Angleterre.” Teeth sank into his throat, followed by that soft, apologetic tongue, soothing the hurt like nothing else. “S’il vous plait, m’ange.” He gasped out, strong arms wrapping around Arthur’s back, holding their bare chests together and fantasizing that their hearts beat together.

“You’re so smooth,” he whispered hoarsely, incoherently, running his hands along his lover’s back, scratching slightly the way Arthur liked. Predictably, the Englishman gasped lightly, resting his head against Francis’s shoulder. It felt like an embrace. A dangerous, messy, hot, bloody embrace.

The Frenchman sight contentedly, stroking the smaller man’s back absently as Arthur found some kind of peace, lying still and pliant against him. It wouldn’t last. It never did. He shifted a little, and small, sure hands grasped at his waistband, tugging impatiently like a child that wanted candy. Francis laughed, trying to shift Arthur on his lap to gain access to the fastenings keeping him clothed.

“You are making me a pedophile, mon cher,” he sighed, enjoying the way Arthur’s face flushed and took on a horrified expression. “I cannot help but notice that you are smaller than me. You look so young.”

Arthur stood abruptly, and Francis found himself at eyelevel with his still wet erection. He smiled as if to greet it, leaning forwards to give it a friendly kiss, but Arthur stepped away too quickly, not bothering to pull his pants up. He sauntered away, suddenly swaying a little on those heeled boots, and Francis worried he would trip. He was also distracted by the fact that Arthur’s pants hung around his upper legs, fully baring the pale skin of his ass and the soft skin on the back of his thighs.

“If your pants are not off by the time I get back,” he threatened, accent thick and rough with the pants of his breath. “I swear I will rip them from you and I will not allow you to repair them later.”

The Frenchman smiled as he reached down to unbutton his trousers and pull them off, folding them neatly and tossing them a few feet away where, hopefully, they would not be ruined. He watched Arthur bend over carefully, a graceful movement that didn’t involve bending his knees. Which, really, he probably didn’t trust himself to do so and still right himself afterwards. He picked up a few objects against the wall and turned back to face the naked blonde, shaking his head at the smile on his perfect face.

He walked slowly, one foot in front of the other, until Francis once again attempted to give his cock a gentle kiss. Once to the left, once to the right, then a sloppy, wet kiss full of tongue for the head. He curled his tongue around the mushroom shaped tip and tongued the slit, rewarded by the way those items dropped from Arthur’s hands as he gripped onto Francis’s shoulders and held on. He was breathing heavily through his nose from what Francis could tell.

His hands came up, and he could see, just for a moment, that there were dark bruises on his wrists before they disappeared from sight again to kneed and grasp against Arthur’s ass, fingers teasing along the cleft. He pressed at his lower back like a massage, dipped his hands between his legs to fondle his balls. The choked sounds Arthur made were like audible sweets, the notes dripping from his mouth like fine chocolate, pooling low in Francis’s stomach like the best of desserts.

He pulled back to murmur against Arthur’s cock, still flicking it with his tongue teasingly. “Is this the treat I get for being good, Angleterre?” The Frenchman lapped at the head again, purring at the little sounds escaping Arthur’s mouth. Cobalt eyes glanced heavenward, looking at Arthur’s flushed face, his hair glowing from the light framing his face. “M’ange,” Francis corrected breathlessly. His green eyes were closed in pleasure, his teeth grasping at his lower lip.

“No,” he replied, kneeling in front of Francis, taking his treat away, making the blonde man pout. “You haven’t been behaving at all. This is conditioning, Francis.” His eyes lit up, and Francis felt himself harden against the cool air. That look was never a bad thing. It meant hours of hot, steamy sex and rough play and games, and everything Arthur would deny if asked about.

“Maybe I should make sure you understand. Donnez-moi votre main. Comprendez-vous?”

Francis gulped, determined not to drool all over himself. He nodded, silently praying to this Godlike creature before him, speaking his language and sex incarnate, not to disintegrate as he reached out, palms up, to take whatever he was offered. Arthur’s smile was breathless, perfect, as he reached down and placed one of the object he had retrieved into Francis’s hand.

Francis stared down at the bottle of lube in his hand, melting on the inside. Arthur was smiling devilishly at him. He uncapped the lid and slicked his palm in the cool oil, feeling it warm as he rubbed his hands together. One hand reached down automatically to stroke his erection while the other reached for his lover’s. Arthur moved forward to straddle his still sitting lover, sitting on his thighs so that their cocks brushed together and Francis had no problem grasping them both in the same hand.

His other hand trailed back across Arthur’s pale hip to reach between his cheeks to brush at the puckered opening there, eliciting a growl from the Englishman. Always a good sign. Francis traced his fingers in gentle circles, wondering if the violence had finally left his lover, if he would allow himself to be taken today. As if sensing his train of thought, Arthur’s intense viridian eyes sought out his own and he offered a tentative smile.

“I hope you’re not broken yet,” he said, breath hitching as Francis’s slick hand pumped them together.

“Je suis desolee,” Francis responded, smiling blissfully. “Je ne parle pas Anglais.” A hand abruptly gripped his hair again, short nails scratching at his scalp. He wondered vaguely where Arthur’s nice gloves had disappeared to before his mind was swept away as a hand joined his on their erections, pumping harder, faster, nothing like his slow and seductive pace.

Francis panted, moaned, hissed as the hand in his hair gripped harder, the one touching his cock sped up, squeezing roughly. Arthur had never been a traditionally good lover. He was not gentle and caressing, but Francis could not imagine him that way. Their passion was best served hot, frantic, and painful.

Francis left the stimulation of their lengths to his hasty lover and concentrated on lifting his hips with one arm and probing at his entrance with the other. One finger made its way into the soft temptation of his body, twisting and curling inward. Arthur’s head slammed against his shoulder, hand leaving the long blonde locks in favor of scratching at his back, finding the welts from his earlier use of the crop and tearing at them. Francis licked at his ear, wanting to swallow the sweat sounds issuing from the Englishman’s mouth.

Another finger joined the first, stretching and scissoring in an attempt to make room inside of him for something larger. Arthur hissed, his hips bucking back against the intrusion, eyes closed against the sensations, on display for the Frenchman watching him with lust-filled eyes.

“So greedy for me, Arthur,” he breathed, adding a third finger to his stretching, pumping the slick digits in and out. Arthur leaned forward until their chests where pressed together, hands gripping Francis’s shoulders as he lifted himself into Francis’s lap, until the hand pumping in and out of him was pressed against Francis’s own erection.

“Thought you didn’t speak English,” he replied, gasping as the head of Francis’s cock nudged against his arse cheeks, pushing at the center of him, replacing the slick fingers that slipped away. Francis bit at his shoulder, teeth gripping his skin gently, causing pain in such a gentle manner that Arthur sighed against him.

“Shhh, Angleterre, this doesn’t require words. But you may be as wantonly vocal as you like.” He tried to hold on to Arthur’s hips, to guide him gently onto his waiting cock, but his impatient friend rolled his eyes at his gentle ministrations. Arthur reached behind himself to grasp the waiting length, stroking over the soft skin before taking a firm hold and guiding himself onto it.

Arthur let out a pained moan as he welcomed Francis into his body, forcing his muscles to relax and take the Frenchman deeper, all the way. His face pressed back to its place in the crook of his lover’s neck, breathing deeply through the pain of being filled so suddenly, despite the preparation. It was worth it to hear the way Francis sucked in his breath, held in, then let it all out in a desperate moan. His fingers gripped at Arthur’s hips, and he was far beyond caring if he left bruises.

“Mon amour, please hold still for a moment, or I will hurt you.” Francis swallowed, his throat spontaneously dry, as he felt the tight, hot body convulse around him. Arthur lifted himself until only the head of Francis’s cock was inside of him, and then slid back down to take it back inside. His breath came out in a hiss, rushing out against the Frenchman’s face and rustling his hair.

“Fuck me, Francis. Or I am going to do it for you.” Arthur went to move again, tucking himself onto Francis’s lap to get a better hold.

“Don’t worry, m’ange, I can do it.” Francis laughed, tucking the smaller man against his chest and rolling him gently onto his back, lifting his legs over his own shoulders, hoping that Arthur wasn’t going to get a cramp. The position was strange, and difficult, with Arthur’s pants still around his knees, but Francis was loving the feel of those leather boots in his hands, against his bare shoulders.

“Rip them,” Arthur said, wriggling around, trying to impale himself further onto the Frenchman’s cock, his face and chest flushed. Francis squawked at the suggestion, but Arthur was scowling and he was shifting backwards as if he was actually considering standing up to take them off.

“Alfred would do it.”

Riiiiiiiip

The shreds of fabric lay sad, broken against his thighs as Francis lifted the Englishman’s hips and reseated him against his pelvis, thrusting forward at the same time. Arthur’s body rocked, his head banging against the ground, a moan tearing out of his throat. They moved together, always in sync, in perfect form.

Francis rubbed his face against leather as he thrust forward into his partner, tilting his hips to push himself deeper. It didn’t take long with his superior lovemaking skills to press against Arthur’s prostate, making him scream and curse and scratch fervently at Francis’s skin. They mouths found each other, teeth and tongue fusing them into a single entity. Francis swallowed moans and hisses of pleasure and pain, moving to please the Englishman before he even managed to choke out a request.

Demanding lover that he was, Arthur tugged at his hair, snarled at him to go “Fucking faster, you idiot. You’re not going to hurt me.” He reached between their slick bodied and found Arthur’s weeping erection, stroked it and squeezed. The small body in his embrace shuddered and seized, inner muscles clenching around him as Arthur came over his hand, breath rushing out in something that sounded suspiciously like, “Je t’aime.”

Francis buried himself to the hilt, balls pressed against Arthur’s still sensitive skin, and emptied himself, sighing. They lay on the cold floor, their skin slowly cooling from the heat that had possessed them. Francis pressed a soft kiss into Arthur’s messy blonde hair, hoping he wasn’t overstepping the boundaries that would soon separate them again.

Arthur shifted, pulling away until the softening member slipped out of him and rolled slowly to his knees. He sighed, then turned those soft, sated eyes on Francis, like there was something he wanted to say that he didn’t quite dare utter. He stood, shakily, and Francis couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his semen running down those milky white thighs.

“Come on,” he said, waving at Francis to get up off the floor. He walked away on trembling legs, wobbling over to a door in the wall that, had he not known where it was, Francis would never have seen. He managed to get off the floor and follow Arthur through the doorway into another room, sighing as the warm air settled against his skin and he stepped onto a thick carpet.

He fell onto the bed there, mostly on top of his lover, pulling a thin sheet over his smaller form, giddy with excitement that Arthur had invited him into the cozy room he had previously been denied. He curled up gently against Arthur’s back, hissing as he realized how sore he was.

“You better be gone in the morning.”

“Of course.”

“And you’d better come back.”

“You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried. As you have.”

“Good. Love you.”

“Je t’aime, Arthur.”

They slept.
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AN: Thanks for reading! Leave me a comment if you see fit, and have a lovely day.