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The heat from the sun beats down on every inch of the uncovered Netherlands plains. Francis tugs on his horse’s reins, directing the stallion from their spot in the middle of the front to instead gallop out of its close clutches. His chest heaves as he maneuvers between acres of dead, dying, and the few living French soldiers on his way to the edges of battle.
A gleam of sweat falls down the curve of his brow, traveling the expanse of his dirtied face before falling off the edge of his chin off to nowhere. Even with the near unbearable summer heat, Francis removes his hat from off his head and, disregarding his vision, uses it to shield his face from the watchful eye of the British troops. As France itself, Francis is relatively well known outside of the French army, and any glimpse of him leaving far away from reinforcements was sure to result in either death or imprisonment.
As he reaches one of the few buildings on the outside of the battlefield, Francis dismounts from his horse before dashing off inside, worried still about being seen running those last few feet. He could still hear the sound of battle outside, even far from the midst of it all. The smell of gunpowder continues to itch at his nose, no matter where in the building he tries to reside. With a small outtake of breath Francis leans the weight of his body up against whichever wall is nearby, so rattled from fight that the thought of the dirt and grime that layers nearly every inch of the building getting onto his uniform barely crossed his mind.
His military is almost certainly doomed, the casualties of the army too large for France to possibly recover from. The only thing that would save their country would most certainly be a miracle from God himself, so Francis would need to pray. He bows his head, if only just enough to get the light out of his eyes. He clasps his hands together and places them just below his digastric site, thumbs pressed against his manubrium. As he shuts his eyes and opens his mouth to ask for a miracle, there’s a pressure on his shoulders, like hands gripping the flesh and pulling a force towards him. Feeling especially so when he feels hot breath against his ear.
There’s a warm gust against his skin as someone huffs out a laugh, Francis opens his eyes a smidge to catch a glimpse at whoever’s behind him. “Ah, you’re praying. Like God would ever answer to a dirty Catholic.”
Francis sucks in a breath, turning his head to face his rival. Arthur wears a rare grin on his face, showing the gap in his teeth that used to be a factor of humiliation but now has become just another asset. His face is mostly devoid of dirt, only small dollops of blood coat the bigger expanses of his expression, with the same being said for his coat; a stark contrast from the dirt framing Francis’ usually perfect facies.
“Arthur..” Francis begins, quiet and almost submissive at first. He stares at the man whose duke is leading to the destruction of the French army, who will soon march into Paris and yet again overthrow their emperor. The docile act shrivels at the thought, and Francis recovers accordingly. Through gritted teeth, he asks, “Are you not supposed to be helping your army?”
“Aren’t you?” Arthur cocks his head to the side; even with the innocent act Francis is sure he’s attempting, the man cannot help but keep the perverted smirk plastered on his face. “If running off is your idea of surrender, I’d happily take your weapons from you and have you serve as my mistress.”
“I’ll do nothing of the sort,” Francis replies, shaking off the hands placed on his shoulders, his flesh warming up again after being cooled by Arthur’s. He takes a step forward, then turns to face the Englishman, who’s standing erect with his hands by his sides in a sudden display of diplomacy. “Unless, of course, your own arrival here indicates that you’ll surrender as well.”
“That’s definitely something you’d believe,” Arthur mutters, just loud enough for Francis to pick up on it under all of the background noise. His eyes trail Arthur as the man begins a linear path along the grime stricken flooring just to arrive by Francis’ side, both facing opposite ends of the room like they were not close at one point and are now only soldiers. Turning his head only just enough to look at Francis in anything that’s not the corner of his eye, Arthur suggests, “I’d enjoy seeing who’s victorious in both our personal battles and of our countries. I offer a battle of strength.”
“A battle of strength?” Despite his situation, Francis chuckles. The suggestion is almost absurd; even in this harrowing situation, Francis has to bite his tongue to avoid mentioning the obvious point of the Hundred Years War. There’s a determined lock in Arthur’s jaw that leads Francis to the conclusion that his offer isn’t some quip, but he still responds, “Oh, but you’re only flattering me. However, I’d have to say I am not in the mood for your theatri—aah!”
Arthur was apparently content with ignoring fundamental rules of an equal duel, and had begun without any form of agreement from his dueling partner. However, when had Francis ever truly denied a battle with Britain? Unless of course... He’s afraid. (If Arthur smirks for seemingly no reason, he wouldn’t blame it on a thought like this.)
Francis had barely even noticed how Arthur had wound his hand back, his fist enclosed and one of the only spots of his body disgraced with the grime war had provided. In the blink of an eye, the fist had moved to hang suspended in the air to instead connect with the apex of Francis’ nose. The crack of broken cartilage comes before the yelp of pain Francis lets out.
It’s barely a second that Francis stands still, processing as Arthur takes the moment to retract his hand. When Arthur moves, Francis does as well, however he does not retaliate. Hands move up to cover his bruising nose, and they slowly begin to collect the dark red blood that begins dripping down his nostrils; his eyes give what they can see of his nose a passing glance, before moving back up to Arthur. “You… buffoon! What kind of country are you!?” Francis yells, although it’s softer than Arthur thinks it ought to be, more similar to anything Arthur’s Canadian provinces would say (which aren’t related to Francis at all, Arthur would state) rather than the true anger Arthur is used to hearing. “You’ve made me bleed… how horrid…” Francis removes the hands cupping his nose, and Arthur is able to see the stark streaks of blood flowing from his nostrils down to the end of his chin.
“You don’t sound particularly angered,” Arthur points out, the corner of his mouth twitching up into yet another smirk. He’s never been particularly able to keep a straight face in times like this. He just feels so alive. “It may make me think that… you’re afraid. Is that the case?”
“Excuse me?” There’s a quirk of a thin eyebrow upward, and tentatively, bloodied hands take position at the Frenchman’s sides, a more standard pose than the defended covering he was doing before. He stands still, now copying Arthur’s stance with only a slight bit of discrepancy.
Arthur cocks his head, feet gliding over the grimy floor as he moves closer to where Francis stands. “You heard what I said,” He states, stopping his movements only about a foot in front of Francis. The pad of his index finger presses against the underside of Francis’ jaw, pushing his head up just enough that Arthur can pretend to examine the origins of the injury. They both know the origins, of course, but it’s an unnecessary action that lets Arthur not seem like a desperate fool when he continues. At least, he thinks that’s how it seems.
Despite what Francis assumes when Arthur leans in, lips do not press against his own. Instead, something slimy but unusually warm travels the bloodied expanse of Francis’ philtrum and the skin nearby. His confusion only lasts for a moment before his face scrunches itself in disgust, as he is sure Arthur had begun licking the blood from his probably-broken nose.
“Stay still, damn you…” Arthur murmurs, pressing himself closer against Francis, who for the moment is standing stock still against Arthur’s actions. His hands hold on to Francis’ mildly muscular arms and his nails dig into the flesh only covered by the sleeves of his uniform, leaving crescent-shaped marks that for now are left unseen. The hot gust of his breath coats Francis’ face, smelling like small hints of tea which barely do anything to hide the more pressing stench that wafts from his mouth, before sticking his tongue from his mouth and pressing it against the bloodied areas of Francis’ face again.
Now understanding what Arthur is doing, Francis can’t seem to direct his senses anywhere other than the feeling of Arthur’s tongue against his face. The muscle leaves cold, slimy saliva in its wake as it trails across the inferior end of his maxilla, feeling like a snail inching its way against his facies.
Francis could only imagine the taste, he’s never been a particularly big fan of tasting his own blood, whether it be falling from nosebleeds or from a rather harsh bite of his cheek. He’d imagine Arthur now tastes like a bag full of coins, and Francis guesses he’s the outlier when he thinks it isn’t as big of a delicacy as Arthur is making it out to be.
The tip of Arthur’s tongue dips down to tease just below Francis’ cupid’s bow but doesn’t go any lower, both to not supply the wrong idea of any kind of intimacy (although Francis would argue it’s pretty intimate right now) and to avoid the stubble that they’re both aware is at least days late from being cleaned.
Arthur’s tongue slowly drags its way back up Francis’ upper jaw, dipping into the philtrum before creeping along the thin ridge of the columella. It presses flat against the still-sore apex of Francis’ nose, and the free nerves under his skin jolt to life near immediately. As the first bolts of pain reach his brain, Francis shakes himself from Arthur’s hold; twisting the trunk of his body around until the crushing grip of Arthur’s hands around his arms loosens.
He takes a step back, his knees a little weak as he falters dangerously close to falling onto his back, prone to whatever Arthur decides to inflict next. Luckily for Francis, his feet regain their footing and he stands up erect once again; facing Arthur who’s looking at him with narrowed eyes and the same cocky smirk he wore the last time Francis was able to see his whole face, which was only a few minutes ago.
His feet push him off of the ground, just enough to lunge himself forward but not enough to fall down once his momentum halts. Francis raises his hands in front of himself and extends them so the brunt of his palm collides with Arthur’s chest, sending the Englishman tumbling down onto the floor, in the same prone position that Francis had almost unwillingly entered.
“Ha!” Francis exclaims, placing his hands on his hips to hide the way they tremble, “You lecher– but look who’s under who now!” As Arthur rubs the back of his head, which was one of the first things to collide with the ground when he fell, Francis takes the chance to give Arthur his comeuppance. He raises his foot before bringing it down again onto Arthur’s abdomen; he puts his whole body weight into the stomp, leaning forward to provide more pressure and digging his heel into the flesh of Arthur’s stomach.
Expectedly, Arthur yelps, but in a much higher pitch than he’d be comfortable admitting came from himself. As Francis laughs from above him, Arthur grits his teeth and brings his hands up to push at the offending leg crushing him. “Bastard…” He mutters, coarse and very obviously pained.
Unbeknownst to Francis (as he’s too high off the power of having Arthur under his boot), Arthur clenches his hand into a fist once again, and pulls it back just enough to deliver a hit that’ll hurt but won’t give himself away before it collides. The punch he gives to the outer part of Francis’ ankle is much less powerful than the one he had given to the Frenchman’s nose, but it still causes Francis to breathe in a shaky gasp and lighten up the onslaught. Francis’ foot removes itself from its place on Arthur’s body, resting on the floor once again as he recovers from the pain that Arthur had inflicted.
Arthur presses his heels firmly against the ground, doing the slightest bit of preparation to roll over and out of Francis’ line of attack. In his preparation, Arthur does not notice Francis raise his foot again, it comes down just as hard not on Arthur’s abdomen, but instead now on his crotch.
“Aah! Get- Get your foot off of me, you frog!” Doubling his efforts, as Francis’ stepping is unsurprisingly more painful when it's directed to a spot with much more nerve endings, Arthur reaches his hands down further to scratch at Francis’ leg. His nails attempt to run painful lines down the expanse of Francis’ calf, but it’s hardly effective as the boots covering the limb do their purpose of taking the brunt of the damage.
Arthur would have to be heavily intoxicated to admit that pain was not all he felt. He was a man, and he was sure that even Francis would agree that any kind of pressure on his crotch would cause at least a trickle of blood to be directed there. However, even with his rationalizations, a burning sense of shame begins to blaze under his skin, that despite how nice the feeling is under the pain it also brings he’d rather Francis not feel how he is beginning to grow erect.
“Now why would I do that?” Francis narrows his eyes, gaze moving from his foot grinding against Arthur’s groin to look him in the eyes instead, “If you’d really like to give up, you would have to admit that France will win this battle, but you would never do that, right?” Francis tilts his head to the side, wearing the same cocky grin that Arthur was wearing moments ago.
With Francis distracted again, Arthur is given the opportunity to gain the upper hand once more (and hopefully, to keep it). His hands reach up from Francis’ pant leg to instead grab the ends of his coat, and before Francis can tear his hands off, Arthur tugs sharply downward. It’s a risky move, with a plausible outcome being that Francis keeps his footing on Arthur’s crotch and gives him a nasty case of rug burn once he falls.
Thankfully, it does not turn out that way, Francis removes his footing from Arthur’s groin right before he drops, making his balance more unstable to Arthur’s benefit. The yelp Francis lets out as he begins his descent is still, sadly for Arthur, in his normal tone of voice. Francis falls almost face first onto the floor, cushioned only by the forearms he extended in front of himself. In the small moment of reprieve where Francis lays still, Arthur scrambles to sit up, ignoring the pain still lingering below, he rolls the Frenchman over and straddles him to keep him in that position.
Blinking up at Arthur, Francis can see the grin that’s back on his face, like he had not just been deprived of his dignity. His teeth are stained slightly red. “That goes for you too, Bonnefoy, if you back down that means England wins this battle.”
“Why would I possibly do that?” Francis asks, still having the gall to grin back at Arthur, even with his bleeding nose and his position under the man he was just over. He raises his upper half up slightly with his elbows, giving him somewhat better leverage to look at Arthur equally.
“Why?” Arthur cocks his head to the side, “Well, we’ll certainly see eventually, won’t we?” Arthur’s hand reaches up to rest gently around the top of Francis’ head, just a bit below the coronal suture. Francis’ smile falters as Arthur entangles his fingers with Francis’ hair, the pads of his fingers pressing against his scalp.
Arthur presses forward as hard as he could, the hand placed on Francis’ head acting as a weight which propels his skull towards the ground. Francis quickly raises both of his hands to wrap around Arthur’s wrist, trying to pull the site of the force away, however it only serves to get rid of his balance and make it easier for Arthur to push forward.
As the back of Francis’ head hits the ground, the pain to his skull manifests as a few seconds of vertigo, a blurriness in his vision, and a distantness in his hearing to a point that his own groan of pain seems far away. He blinks, and his vision comes back in enough to see Arthur’s grin taking up the expanse of his sights. A quick, but however sharp pain jolts through Francis’ scalp, and Arthur’s hand, when he pulls it away, is entangled with a mass of shiny, blonde strands around the length of his fingers.
Francis brushes his hand against the back of his head, and when he brings it back around to look, his hand is not noticeably more bloodied than it was before. He flexes his fingers, curling them inwards towards the skin of his palm; he extends them again, and when he flexes them to reach his palm once more, his fingernails dig into the excess flesh available. Arthur ignores this action and turns his gaze up to the spot where the wall and ceiling meet, leaning backwards on Francis’ legs, “Do you understand now? That’s two to one, even I would surrender at this point.”
Raising himself back up on the bruised flesh of his forearms, Francis sits in the same position he had moments before, only with a considerably more frustrated, pained grit to his jaw than he last had. The clenched ball of his fist collides with the hardened yet otherwise uncovered area of Arthur’s stomach. The result of the hit is almost immediate, and Francis watches with a gleeful look in his eyes as Arthur coughs up a sound that seems near to vomiting and curls in on himself, hands over the pained area of his abdomen.
Francis, once more, pushes his hands out in front of him, extending his fingers so that the smooth skin of his palm presses harsh against Arthur’s chest. He quickly wiggles out of his placement before Arthur, and uses Arthur’s descent to rearrange himself above the Englishman. As fast as it occurs, however, Arthur’s mind is clear enough to wrap his legs around Francis’ waist, tugging the Frenchman down when Arthur rolls to the side, swapping their positions.
“I can’t believe how stubborn you are,” Arthur comments, still holding a hardness to his jaw that gives Francis a small stroke of his ego when he realizes Arthur is still in pain. The Englishman’s hands rest hard on Francis’ shoulders, keeping him down; and as he shifts his weight onto one knee, with Francis unable to move beneath him, his grin grows back onto his expression.
“How would you like some payback?” Arthur asks, rhetorically, he’d do it no matter what Francis says. It’s all a matter of winning the battle, of course. The leg he had moved his weight off of raises up to dig into the sensitive flesh of Francis’ crotch, “Doesn’t feel so– ah… uhm… hm…”
Arthur pauses, eyebrows knitting together and grin lowering into a confused frown, feeling a strange sensation under his knee rather than what he was expecting. Without really thinking about it, he shoves his knee harder against Francis’ groin, and he’s met not only with a small bit of movement in the form of a twitch against his patella, but also what could be discerned as a whimper from Francis. Almost immediately, Arthur trails his eyes downward, and his suspicions are proven almost blatantly correct, “You have an erection.”
“I–,” Francis starts, before shutting his mouth with a loud clack of his teeth. His eyes dart down to Arthur’s crotch, before darting back up to glare him in the eye, “You hypocrite! You do too!”
“…I suppose that’s correct,” Arthur nods, averting his eyes from Francis, cheeks flushing a slight shade of red that’s easily discernible against his almost sickly-pale skin. “Well…” His grin returns as quick as it had left, wide enough that it shows the glint of his molars (which are not particularly sharp, sanded down as a result of eating lots of hardtack during his pirate years), “How about we put our little contest aside? If, of course, you be the girl.”
Francis sighs, a quiet outtake of breath as he grabs Arthur by the collar of his uniform; however instead of pushing him off, like he would before, he pulls Arthur down, closer. “I’m not particularly fastidious anymore,” He declares, before leaning up as far as Arthur’s hands would let him (still placed hard against the ends of his shoulders) and presses his lips against Arthur’s.
The kiss itself is not as perfect as either of them would have preferred, their lips are chapped and their breath reeks just bad enough to be obvious but not enough of a reason to pull away. Perfection is what neither of them are looking for, as the kiss is only the beginning (or in this situation more like the middle) to their real goal, which is coupling. Naturally.
Arthur opens his mouth just enough to be noticeable (which, with their lips pressed together, is not much), which Francis uses near immediately to plunge his tongue past Arthur’s lips. Other than tea and anything else Francis could describe as simply terrible, Arthur mostly takes like blood. It’s a harsh iron taste Francis isn’t used to in such a concentrated amount, like the few times he’s licked the blunt metal edge of his sword for little to no reason other than he could.
Arthur shifts his knee back from Francis’ crotch to the ground, removing the slightest bit of stimulation it held. Francis sighs impatiently at the lack of pressure into Arthur’s mouth, and the Englishman tilts his head to the side as he continues his motions. His hands remove themselves from Francis’ shoulders, only to return on the high-waisted waist band of his breeches. Deft fingers begin to undo the buttons holding the breeches secure against Francis’ waist, moving the tin in between and out of the seams sewn into the material. All the while, Arthur moves his mouth back to Francis, pressing his lips up against the other’s but keeping his mouth closed. Once both of the buttons are undone, Arthur places his fingers under the waist band, and begins to pull downwards until the breeches rest against the upper area of Francis’ thighs. He cares not to pull them down any lower than required.
Arthur pulls back from Francis, sitting up on his knees as his hands move from Francis’ breeches to his own. He does the same movements he had just used as he undoes the buttons and, once he’s completed that task, pulls his breeches down just enough to comfortably free himself from the suffocating fabric.
Francis lays before Arthur, his breeches pulled down and revealing his flesh without any other fabric hiding it. As Arthur pulls down his breeches, revealing that he, too, has had his skin covered by only one fabric, Francis gawks, “You’re not wearing any drawers— I was right, you are a lecher!”
“Hypocrite…” Arthur murmurs, raising a hand up to Francis’ nose, which is still leaking blood in copious amounts as it had not only flowed down to his chin but also had begun to round the side of his face, covering Francis’ expression in dark red and the pink remnants it leaves behind when smudged. The hand presses down to cover itself in the color, ignoring how Francis hisses in pain and swats at Arthur’s hand to pull itself away, Arthur only lets up when his hand seems sufficiently saturated with blood. He rubs half of the blood that covers his hand onto the opposite, and continues on.
One hand wraps itself against Francis, which, in the minute Arthur was focusing on something other than it, had grown from slightly red and only halfway erect to sporting a densely flushed color and standing as far up as Arthur knows would be possible. Francis relaxes himself against the ground, hair splaying around his head like an angel’s halo (although it’s certainly an incorrect comparison), he lets out a pleasured breath and contents himself with leaving Arthur to the work he’s set himself out to do.
Arthur’s other hand presses against the opening situated at Francis’ lower point, smearing the area with blood although he’s careful to not get any on Francis’ breeches, pulled just low enough to reveal what is needed for the task but not enough to save itself from stains if Arthur becomes careless. Without much tempting, Arthur’s finger is able to make its way inside, and he filters his comments to only a perplexed “I assumed this would be harder” as he continues his ministrations.
“We’re not all as abstinent as you, Kirkland,” Francis huffs out, blinking his eyes back open to give Arthur a look that most would interpret as "get on with it”. Arthur ignores this and tightens the hand that’s on Francis rather than in, and the glare easily dissolves itself. Francis’ next words are situationally much more breathless, “War calls for desperate measures.”
“You would’ve been able to handle yourself, I’ve gone longer without a lay.” He presses in another finger, attempting to maneuver them in such a way to provide enough leeway for intercourse, while also letting Arthur put in as little effort as possible. Francis gazes up at Arthur with a smile, devoid of the anger and disgust he had felt just moments prior, so Arthur guesses he’s doing something right.
“I see. Is that why you remain so grumpy then?” The last word of his question is barely cut off by a sharp inhale and a groan that’s hidden in the following sigh, and Arthur curls his fingers in such a way that it brushes up against a relatively nice-feeling spot in Francis’ insides. He reaches a hand down to swat Arthur’s fingers away, and Arthur retracts both hands instead of just the one, much to Francis’ dismay, “I am ready.”
Arthur hums, coating himself in whatever blood still remains on his hand before deeming himself ready enough to begin. He shifts, situating himself between Francis; he takes himself in hand and lines up with the hole that thankfully looks less taut than it had moments ago. “That was mighty quick. I’d say you must get your nymphomania professionally seen, but-” Arthur is finally able to push himself in, even if only a miniscule amount so far, he lets out a content sigh and he continues breathily, “not right now.”
The Englishman remains slow as he pushes himself in, taking care to keep his thrusts languid and short as he gradually makes his way inside. With each roll of Arthur’s hips, only about a centimeter of himself enters before promptly being taken back out, and within about a minute of his process Arthur does not even have half of himself sheathed. Francis’ brows furrow and he minusculely raises himself up on his forearms, “Arthur,” He begins, raises a leg as far up as his breeches (still only pulled down to his thighs) let him, and wraps it around the Englishman’s hips, pushing forward as an attempt to goad him into continuing, “I am not fragile, so don’t treat me as such.”
“I am well aware,” Arthur responds with a small upturn of his lips. Although Francis is half certain that Arthur will drag out this moment for another agonizing few minutes, instead he snaps his hips up to sheath the rest of himself in a single moment.
Francis lets out a whine like he’s been shot, taking the weight of the upper half of his body off of his forearms and laying himself back down against the dirty flooring. His eyes blink shut for only a second or so before they flutter back open to look up at Arthur with a pleased grin, “Don’t just sit there.”
“Aye aye,” He lowers his head slightly in half of nod, as he rests the palms of his hands on the ground beside Francis’ waist to give himself leverage. His thrusts begin in full, a push and pull that, to Francis’ dismay, isn’t quite a ‘snapping’ but still well enough that Francis’ doesn’t yet feel compelled to complain.
Following, their movements remain relatively consistent, at least lower down. Francis only raises his other leg to join the one that had wrapped itself around Arthur’s waist before, the slightly different position it requires allows Arthur to push himself in around a centimeter more, which both Arthur and Francis groan their thankfulness for.
Arthur bends over to angle his face only a few inches in front of Francis’, his heavy breathing gusting hot air against the Frenchman’s face. A bead of sweat travels the expanse down the curve of Arthur’s forehead and drips off as it reaches the end of the superciliary arch; the droplet makes its way down onto Francis’ own forehead, and he has half a mind to furrow his eyebrows at the disturbance. “I cannot believe we’re doing this in the middle of battle,” Arthur mutters, voice low and slightly restrained, making Francis relatively sure he is holding back his own noises to take the part of the male, “This… this is most surely impure…”
“Jesus… I’d like for you to con-continue on without your ssssimpleton blabbering,” Francis grits, his noises only as quiet as the pants he lets out per every one of Arthur’s thrusts upward. His tongue is incidentally bitten near-bloodied in Francis’ attempts to keep his own noises as low as they are, under the assumption that keeping himself quiet before Arthur begins releasing louder noises of his own will give himself a point in the unspoken game they continue to play.
“Do not.. take the Lord’s name in vain, ca-ahhtholic.” At the end of a particularly hard thrust, Arthur’s voice cracks in the middle of his sentence, leading to a particularly girlish noise that sings through Francis’ ears. Arthur pauses, a complete, full-body stop as he processes his own noises; his face grows a shade of red which matches the coat of the uniform he still dons.
“Aha!” Francis’ grin widens so far it hurts the muscles of his face. His arms wrap around to the back of Arthur’s neck, pulling him downwards to be face-to-face with Francis as they were before, “I had wondered if you’d ever sound like the girl in this position but it seems I was right again!”
“Your ears deceive you, I’m not sure of what you speak about,” Arthur averts his eyes, pushing himself up enough that Francis has to withhold some of his hold around Arthur’s neck. Tentatively, he begins the thrusts once more, with little of the passion that had built up seeping out into the movements, as from his flushed face (much more than it was just a minute ago) and shifting eyes, his embarrassment is still evident.
Before Francis can think about it, Arthur’s hand comes back up to press on Francis’ nose, hand splayed open and the flesh of his palm digging into the still-sore apex. Mindlessly, a hiss fizzes itself out of Francis’ mouth, and his hands quickly move from remaining slack against Arthur’s shoulders to grip tightly against the column of Arthur’s forearm.
Despite himself, Francis can feel himself getting more aroused from Arthur’s experimental offense of pain. The heightened endorphins affecting not only his brain but travelling downwards as well to his lower half where Arthur lay. Near immediately, Arthur lets out a noise which Francis is eager to hear still sounds particularly girlish; he remains eager as Arthur bows his head and reintroduces the passion in his movements that was lost in the previous moment of embarrassment.
Francis grips tightly onto Arthur’s wrist before tearing the daring hand away, although the lack of pain is a welcome feeling, the action is more so to keep his mind clear as he speaks rather than a real desire to lessen the ache. “Be.. before you say a-anything crass, you gained aaa-an erection from m-my attacks as well.”
“Th-that… remains true,” Arthur huffs, reaching up the hand that has just been dismissed to brush a few strands of his sweat-wet hair out from in front of his face. There’s a pause from his upper half, while everything below his waist moves as usual, before Arthur bends down again. He reaches far enough downwards that the eminence of his forehead presses against Francis’, their eyes lock for only a moment before being broken by Arthur averting his eyes to some nowhere point in the room. “I-Is this a re-eecent development?”
A laugh tears itself from Francis’ throat, the noise breathy but cut off halfway as Arthur continues his movements forward. “No,” A wider grin makes itself evident on Francis’ face, expression both smug and blissed; however, Arthur has barely any time to pick up on the intricacies of Francis’ expression as his hair gets sharply grabbed and his head pushed closer to Francis’ face.
Their lips collide yet again, and it’s not too dissimilar to the last time they had done this moments ago. Their lips are chapped and create an oddly grating texture as they move against each other, and not only does Arthur still taste of blood, but Francis does as well, both from him biting his tongue but also from the blood from his nosebleed flowing down into his mouth (Arthur seems much more enthusiastic about this than Francis seems about Arthur’s own bloody taste).
Francis tugs Arthur down further by the hand still gripped in the short strands of his hair, and their closeness leads to their teeth clashing against each other with a sharp-sounding clack. The pain, if only this time, is unwelcome, and as Francis tilts his head away, Arthur raises himself upwards. However, Arthur lifts himself in not enough time for Francis to remove his hand from Arthur’s head, resulting in strands of Arthur’s own blonde locks tearing themselves from his scalp and ending up stranded wrapped around Francis’ fingers.
Although the pain in and of itself is much less than Arthur would ever get angry at, he takes it as an opportunity and a reason to press the palm of his hand against Francis’ nose again. The pressure he puts on the broken cartilage and bone is noticeably more than before, and despite Francis’ beginning squirming from the pain it is not left unnoticed by either Arthur or Francis the effect that it has on the Frenchman’s arousal.
“I.. I didn’t know… it waaaa-as to this de-degree,” Arthur groans, voice a higher pitch than it was before and it makes Francis wonder if it’s getting near to the end of their coupling. A spark of frustration rises itself in Francis’ veins, if only to Arthur’s taunting. Francis’ hands twitch where they rest on the floor before raising to grab onto Arthur, however, his hands don’t clasp the hand sending currents of pain through his synapses, but instead wrap themselves around Arthur’s throat, which is still close enough to himself that he can grab onto it with relative ease in his position.
Arthur pauses his movements almost as soon as Francis’ hands touch the free skin of his neck. The palm of Francis’ hands press lightly against the hard cartilage protecting Arthurs’ windpipe beneath his skin, but his fingers dig into the sides of his neck as hard as he can get them to (Francis is thankful now then he has stress-bitten his nails down as far as they could go before battle). Arthur’s face seems to pale but also flush, the red in his face is darker than Francis has even seen it, but he doesn’t get to appreciate Arthur’s condition for long as, after only a few seconds, Francis watches and feels as Arthur goes rigid before muttering out a moaned and literally-breathless, “Oh, Christ.”
Francis really hadn’t been expecting it, but he watches with wide eyes as Arthur’s eyes squinch tightly shut and his lower half moves barely before Francis becomes very aware of something warm and vaguely liquid entering his insides. As soon as Francis is able to regain his bearings, and about two-thirds of the way through Arthur’s orgasm, Francis has it in himself to tear his hands away from Arthur’s throat and instead rest awkwardly on the ground once more. Once Arthur’s airway is left open, he lets out a choked inhale that seems halfway between a simple intake of breath and a girlish moan.
The hand from his nose had removed itself in the ordeal, so Francis is certainly clear enough to mutter a simple, yet shocked, “Goodness.” Francis stares at Arthur with wide eyes as the man quickly comes back to himself, pulling away from Francis and pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket to begin wiping himself off.
“I don’t know what got over me,” Arthur murmurs, loud enough for Francis to hear it, although he had to strain his ears to do so with the background noise of the battle coming back into his hearing.
Raising himself up from the ground, Francis sits as he watches Arthur redress himself, still commando as he pulls his breeches up over his hips. “Arthur, I’m still erect,” He announces, and the Englishman turns his head and looks down, like he had forgotten and is checking again.
Arthur lightly hits his head in a duh sort of gesture, face still flushed from both embarrassment and exertion but his smile still begins to grace his expression once again, “Ah, right. It would not be gentlemanly of me to leave you like this, right?” He removes the glove of his right hand (it’s no clue to Franics why he had decided to take off his gloves for this of all situations rather than what had happened before), and easily takes Francis into his fist; while Arthur’s hand is dry, Francis is still wet with the blood Arthur had smeared earlier on in their situation.
“Shouldn’t be long now,” He sighs, relaxing his muscles and fluttering his eyes open to look at Arthur, who sits before him. Arthur seems focused on the movements of his hand, eyes slightly narrowed and tongue peaking itself slightly from his teeth, under the gap that separates the halves of his upper set; the sweat has stopped forming from the pores lining his face but there’s still the shiny gleam of sweat not yet washed away.
Francis would prefer to keep his gaze on Arthur’s expression, however he was already relatively close and Arthur’s hand is taking no measures to soothe the ache and rather encourages it. As Arthur tightens his hand on Francis with only a tad more pressure than Franics would usually ask for, it seems the end is already nigh.
Francis’ own orgasm is much less intense as Arthur’s but still in the end satisfying. His muscles tense and his eyes flutter shut to now be hidden by their eyelids and lashes, his own moan is thankfully significantly lower in pitch than Arthur’s, and therefore Francis himself would prefer to rather call it a groan (Arthur would be sure to disagree). His hips twitch minutely upward, and while Francis is still in the throes of ecstasy, Arthur is still aware as he watches the white liquid burst out from Francis and land in stripes on his hand.
Arthur gives Francis a few seconds as he continues to gently move his hand before pulling it away, his handkerchief quickly takes time to wipe the evidence of the orgasm off of his ungloved hand. As Francis begins to settle back into reality, Arthur takes the time to ask, “You have your own handkerchief, yes?”
“Oui,” Francis tilts his head down slightly in a nod, voice still breathy and face still flushed with exertion. He grabs his handkerchief from his pocket, with fingers that still have an overexcited tremor, before beginning to wipe himself off.
Arthur watches only for a few seconds as he puts his glove back on, before standing. His path along the grimy floor is expected, as not only is it as linear as it had been before this event (his stance is also relatively erect, as it seems to Francis that he’s attempting to enter the mindset of a soldier once again) but the destination is the musket he had left precariously on the floor during some part of their interaction.
“Well, I’ve won?” Arthur asks, resting his musket on his shoulder as he fixes the wrinkled clothes that sit upon him. He turns to Francis, who, after cleaning himself up to the amount that he deems the minimum, has begun standing up on shaky legs to pull up his breeches.
“Won what? Intercourse?” Francis asks, tilting his head up to look at Arthur where he stands a few feet away. He pulls his breeches up to their rightful spot on his waist and starts doing up the buttons, “Yes, you could say you won that.”
“No, no,” There’s a shake of the Englishman’s head, an amused smile on his lips which Francis finds particularly condescending. The real frustration seems to have returned between them now that it’s not a fuel for their lust. Francis’ eyes follow as Arthur walks up to Francis’ own musket and picks it up, “The battle.”
Francis’ brows furrow in thought, a frown gracing his features even as he tugs on his coat to get rid of the wrinkles, “I thought we had called that competition off.”
“You believed me?” Arthur seems almost flabbergasted, a laugh making its way out of his throat which, from its tone, is clearly surprised as well as amused. “I had my fingers crossed, and I was sure you had noticed and hadn’t minded. I’m not exactly the most subtle.”
Arthur brushes by Francis, knocking his shoulder into the others and forcing Francis to step to the side to avoid getting pushed over. “I’d best get going now,” Arthur continues, standing by the doorway to the building but looking over his shoulder to watch Francis’ expression, “What was it you people say… Vive la France? Yes. Have fun with that.”
With that Arthur passes through the doorway and the wooden door closes with a more than obvious bang. Francis, in the building without weapons, probably a horse, and his dignity, isn’t exactly sure what to do in this situation. His men seem worse for wear when he looks outside, and he’s clearly able to see that, yes, Arthur had taken his horse on his way out.
There was no point in going out to fight. When Arthur has his mind set on something like this, and apparently also on being the male in their coupling today, there’s no easy way of stopping him. With Arthur’s excitement over his victory, Francis has been to wonder if Arthur succeeding is more plausible than he had thought.
Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen to Francis. He had enjoyed the empire while it had lasted, and his boss had already been exiled once, it was not improbable to occur again. Francis had, of course, at least gotten a good lay out of the whole ordeal.