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Francis gets back from his meeting a little later then he had anticipated. The meeting itself had gone on for some time and then Ludwig had been sweet enough to take him out to dinner afterwards. Francis smiles as he lets himself into the flat, and makes his way down the darkened hall to the living room where he turns on a lamp. The dinner itself had been lovely; spending time with Allemagne was always something Francis looked forward to these days, especially since they had become politically so close. He knew the attention he paid Ludwig also made Arthur jealous which was, as far as Francis was concerned, simply icing on the cake. He pulls his tie off and then undoes the first couple buttons on his shirt and wanders up to the bedroom. Arthur isn’t there; actually Arthur doesn’t seem to be home at all which isn’t unusual enough to be worrisome, still though it is unusual.
Usually at this point in the evening Arthur is curled up on the couch watching the telly and embroidering. Usually Francis, having already abandoned whatever book he’s currently reading does his level best to entice the other nation to come to bed early. It seems though that tonight Arthur had gone out. Francis sighs and picks up the history he’s been reading, plus his reading glasses and takes them back down stairs. He curls up on the couch pulling a throw blanket that Arthur had made over his knees, puts on his glasses and flips to wear he last left off. The author’s good Francis will give him that; meticulous with his research and source material, he just gets some things wrong. Which isn’t his fault really but Francis had actually been there at the time.
He’s absorbed in a surprisingly accurate depiction of nineteenth century Russian politics when the front door bangs open. Francis sets aside his book and then gets off the couch and makes his way to the front hall. Arthur is just taking off his coat muttering to himself in the semidarkness of the unlit front passageway and Francis freezes, mouth going suddenly dry.
Arthur isn’t dressed as he usually is in one of his shapeless jumpers and trousers or loose fitting jeans; neither is he wearing one of his hideous brown suits. Instead he is dressed in skin tight jeans, that ride low on his hips, kept from becoming actually indecent enough to be down right illegal by a black leather, studied belt. He’s wearing a skintight black t-shirt with some kind of design, maybe of an electric guitar, on the front. The shirt is tight enough to show off every line of Arthur’s chest. When Arthur reaches to hang up his leather jacket, it rides up enough to expose a strip of pale skin and Francis outright stares. Arthur’s hair is spiked, his nails are painted black, he’s wearing what looks like combat boots, and Francis doesn’t think of Arthur as young any more then he thinks of himself as young. Arthur looks young now though, a little bit human, a little bit fragile. Francis isn’t even aware of moving until Arthur is slammed, face first, against the wall of the front hallway, Francis body pinning him in place.
“Oy!”
Francis actually growls, and Arthur smells like sweat and cigarettes and beer. Francis pushes his face into the curve of Arthur’s neck; hands circle each of Arthur’s wrists none too gently and force them up above Arthur’s head. Francis bites down on Arthur’s shoulder. Feels the cotton of the t-shirt against his mouth, with sinew and muscle underneath and Arthur makes a half pained sound. Francis lets go of Arthur’s shoulder and kisses his neck instead, his glasses bumping against Arthur’s jaw. Francis hands slide way from Arthur’s wrists, one wrapping around Arthur’s slim waist, the other unceremoniously grabs Arthur’s crotch, squeezes hard without finesse and Arthur whimpers and thrusts forward into Francis’ hand. Francis pushes himself against Arthur’s body, grinds against Arthur’s backside. The hand that’s been holding Arthur around the waist moves up underneath Arthur’s t-shirt to grope across stomach and chest. Francis finds first one and then the other of Arthur’s small nipples, squeezing and pulling each in turn almost viciously. Arthur pants open mouthed, hands now bracing himself against the wall as Francis grinds into him, and roughly fondles him through his jeans. Francis licks across the back of Arthur’s neck from the collar of his shirt to his hair line and then bites down on the fragile skin at the nape and Arthur’s whole body bucks.
“Fuck!”
Francis’ hand pushes down the front of Arthur’s almost impossibly tight jeans, the back of his hand scraping painfully against Arthur’s belt buckle. Arthur’s not wearing anything under the jeans, not that he really could given how tight they are, but the revelation, cause Francis to groan and thrust his hips forward anyway. He’s so hard, it feels like he’s be hard for hours instead of minutes, and he rakes fingertips through the soft curls at the base of Arthur’s cock, skims over hot flesh, before pulling Arthur bodily back against him with force.
“I’m going to fuck you, Arthur.” Francis is actually surprised by how calm and steady his voice sounds considering he’s almost beside himself with the desire to touch Arthur everywhere all at once. Arthur makes noise somewhere between a moan and a growl as Francis holds Arthur’s hips still with one hand and gropes Arthur’s backside with the other. Arthur’s ass has always been extremely molestable even when not incased in skintight jeans. Francis’ hand drops off of Arthur’s hip to start clawing at the slighter nation’s belt buckle and Francis mouth latches back onto the nape of Arthur’s neck, sucking at the already red bite mark there.
“God. Oh God.” Arthur is rocking back against Francis, who finally manages to get Arthur’s jeans open and pulls them down off of the other nations hips to bunch around his knees. His hands grab Arthur’s ass again, before sliding back around to harshly grasp Arthur’s cock. “Jacket.” Arthur’s voice is high and desperate, “Francis, dear God, jacket pocket.”
Francis places one hand on the small of Arthur’s back, pushing him almost violently against the wall and holding him there as his other hand goes to Arthur’s jacket, fumbles with it for a moment before sliding into the pocket, there is nothing there but Arthur’s keys. Francis makes a frustrated noise and keeps searching. Finally in the inner pocket his fingers close around two items: a condom and a single-use tube of lubricant.
Francis vision hazes over red for a moment that the thought of Arthur, his Arthur, going out, dressed like that, ready, and prepared . . . A more rational portion of his mind reminds him that Arthur hasn’t actually fucked random human men since the eighties at least.
Francis once against doesn’t even register moving until after the fact, not until he hears the smack of skin against skin, loud in the quiet hall. Arthur cries out and pushes himself off the wall back towards Francis. Francis’ hand connects with Arthur’s backside again using all the strength he, as a nation, possesses. He’s not holding back as he usually does, even when Arthur begs him not to, he’s not holding anything back. He spanks Arthur again; the force of the blow rocking Arthur back against the wall, and Arthur moans and bites at his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. Francis keeps spanking Arthur, watches the other nation’s lovely rounded buttocks becomes pink and then dull red in the dim light. Arthur is braced against the wall to keep himself from being shoved into face first, with each hit. He thrusts back towards every time Francis raises his hands for another smack, and Arthur is panting and crying out, mouth open, head lolling down between his arms. Finally Francis stops, rubbing one hand gently across the abused flesh. He wraps one arm around Arthur’s waist and pulls him back until Arthur’s arms are straight, braced against the wall, chest parallel to the floor, reddened ass in the air.
“Slut.” Francis says almost fondly, running one hand over Arthur’s ass again and undoes his own belt.
“I always-” Arthur pants, “Oh God . . . not just tonight . . .Francis, damn it, please-”
Francis clenches his hand into a fist on the small of Arthur’s back when he finally manages to free his own erection and grits his teeth as he tries to keep himself from coming on the spot. The little tube of lubricant is cool and distracting in his hand and Francis takes the top off and notes the little nozzle designed so that the lube can be inserted straight into who ever is about to get fucked. Arthur moans like the slut Francis had accused him of being when Francis spreads his reddened cheeks and forces the contents of entire packages of lube into him. Francis leans forward taking Arthur around the waist again as he presses the tip of his cock against Arthur’s little hole. They both don’t breathe for a moment and then Francis kisses Arthur gently on the back of the neck, as be pressed all the way in with one movement. Arthur cries out sharply, body spasming around Francis’ cock. Francis doesn’t wait, doesn’t give Arthur time to get used to the feeling of being full, just starts thrusting. Francis’ nails dig into Arthur’s hips and their body connect, hips against ass every time Francis pushes in and Arthur cries out and whimpers, fingers scrapping along the wall as his body is moved.
It can’t last, Francis is so close, Arthur is so tight around him. His reach up with one hand tangling in Arthur’s hair, stiff with hair gel, wrenches his head back. He bites down on one ear, sucking the mettle ring Arthur’s hearing in the lobe into his mouth. Francis flicks at the earring with his tongue. Arthur’s whole body goes rigid as he comes, with a high-pitched cry loud enough that Francis is sure they’d just woken up the neighbors. Francis has just enough control to pull out of Arthur before coming across the other nations lower back and ass.
They both pant for several minutes, Arthur boneless and shaking still clutching at the wall. Francis’ hands go to his trousers and he tucks himself back in and does up his belt. He takes a few long shuddering breaths and then reaches for Arthur, and other nations eyes go wide with confusion as Francis spins him around. Then Arthur’s eyes are wide this time with outrage as Francis unceremoniously picks him up and slings him over one shoulder, heading for the stairs.
“Bloody Hell, Francis put me down!” Arthur pounds none to gently on Francis back and Francis winces.
“Easy Angleterre it would be a shame for me to drop you on your head.” He considers that for a moment “Well-”
“Wanker!” Arthur spits and Francis kicks open the bedroom door and drops the squirming nations onto the bed. He kneels down and starts unlacing Arthur’s boots and Arthur as the good sense to stop thrashing and instead watches him as Francis peels off Arthur boots and then his jeans tossing them both on the floor. “I just went to a concert,” Arthur’s voice is softer and Francis climbs onto the bed and rifles through the side table before finding a washcloth and he carries into the bathroom and runs it under warm water. “I was going to tell you.” Arthur’s voice drifts in from the bedroom, “but your meeting took longer then you said it was going to.”
“You could have texted me.” Francis points out as he moves back into the bedroom and sits on the bed again, but he’s not really mad about it. He rolls Arthur over and runs the cloth across his backside and Arthur hisses a little.
“Does the clothes turn you on that much or was it the idea of other men seeing me in them?” Arthur looks back over his shoulder at Francis, and Francis raises his eyebrows.
“Perhaps both, why?”
“So that I can do it again.” Arthur rolls back over gingerly and Francis cleans Arthur’s now flaccid cock and the inside of his thighs. “I usually have to write you a bloody dissertation before you spank me.” Arthur rolls his eyes and Francis feels a stab of guilt about his early loss of control. What Francis is thinking most have showed on his face because Arthur reaches up grabbing the front of Francis’ silk shirt and pulls him down into a kiss. He doesn’t even seem to mind that Francis’ reading glasses bump against the bridge of his nose as Francis kisses him back.
“It’s been a long time since you just took me because you could.” Arthur says against Francis’ lips between soft kisses, “I liked it, you idiot.”
Francis kisses Arthur on the forehead, before sliding off the bed to begin getting undressed. Arthur rolls back over onto his stomach with a little groan and reaches out pulling one of the blankets over himself and wrapping it around him.
Francis pulls on a pair of pajama bottoms and one of Arthur’s old t-shirts and slides into bed. He listens to Arthur’s breathing and thinks about Arthur wearing that outfit again, this time just for him. His mind wanders to earlier that evening the dinner he had shared with Ludwig. He smiles at the thought of how jealous Arthur is sure to be when Francis tells him and Francis idly wonders whether it will be Arthur ambushing him in the hall next time.