Prostitution of Indecent Years
The smoke of the cigarette charred his lungs, a scalding sweet taste that he exhaled slowly through pursed lips, watching Francis approach him through the haze. He leaned easily against the wall, followed the silken robe with his eyes as it slipped to the floor before trailing back up to take in the entirety of him. His long lean legs and fairly wide hips and toned chest with a few curls of dark hair.
He was beautiful, despite the bandages around his waist, red leaking through. He was beautiful, despite the way he limped. And Arthur knew why he limped, tried to distort his rage because Francis was here, with him, no one else. He was beautiful, despite the shadows beneath his eyes, heavy black and obvious against his creamy skin. Francis didn't sleep. He couldn't.
He slid onto the bed with him, between his spread legs, looking vulnerable. Where is his tiger? He took another long drag, smiling around the smoke as Francis unzipped his pants, sliding them over his hips, his soft, chapped lips pressed into a thin line. He brushed the hair, blonde and shimmering, that curled around his face away. He wanted to watch. Wanted to watch his cock disappear inside that talented mouth, lips around wrapped tight.
Francis gazed up at him, and for a moment the ice of his stare cut right through him, to his heart. Where it was melted with his tongue and his mouth and his passion, making Arthur moan in gentle encouragement, hips grinding up. He dragged in more smoke, breath hitching when teeth teased, choking over those eyes.
"Arthur." Francis moaned softly, avoiding his gaze. Not petit lapin. Something clenched inside of him with that. He tried desperately to ignore it. Tried not to think about how many other fucking times they had repeated precisely the same process. Always a little different, always under a different king or a different time or a title.
But it was always the same, and Francis always gave him that look.
Slim, crooked fingers gripped his thighs, throat working, slurping, his tongue so heavenly that Arthur let his head flop back to the wall. He closed his eyes, taking in the sweet charring smoke again to distance himself from the ice and the fire and the tempest that Francis thrust upon him. Not enough. Too good. So good that he came, too soon, because he wanted to drag it out.
He breathed the cigarette in. He did not think of who else Francis had done this for, over the years. He did not let the jealousy boil up and seethe inside of him, seizing control of all his baser instincts. He pulled Francis up by the hair, crushing their mouths together and tasting himself. Francis grunted softly, before he was released.
He smirked up at him, so sharp in the early morning sunlight, his skin glowing milky white. It accentuated his bruises, the angry red flesh, the redness of his mouth. He would never get sick of admiring Francis like this. So beautiful it was probably sickening, probably disgusting, but so sweet that he had to attempt to taste. He flicked the white ashes away, watching the tip flare as he breathed in again.
He didn't want to look at Francis and see.
"No matter how many times you see me on my knees, you never get tired of it." Francis murmured against the soft flesh of his inner thigh, his smile a thin white dagger. Arthur might have been able to find something to say, but Francis's sudden kiss left him dumbfounded, so he moaned softly instead, arms winding around Francis's body, feeling him until their hearts seemed to beat as one.
"I'm the only one who will ever see you on your knees again." Arthur promised, voice low, dangerous. His eyes glinted in a way that would have rivaled his pirate days. Francis only laughed, sunlight bouncing off the sound until it reverberated in his chest, pulling away to grab the silken robe from the floor. The smoke of the cigarette provided no screen. He was selfish. For wanting Francis to be only his.
Francis was his.
It wasn't like the statement hadn't been true, in all the centuries they had known each other. So why now? Why refuse now when Francis needed his protection, needed his friendship? Why draw up his pride and his beauty and his oozing sexuality like a shroud or a shield, when the enemy would only want to break him?
"Am I your whore, Arthur?" Francis asked sweetly, eyes dark, still grinning, laying back among the thing sheets, silk fabric smoothing along his thighs. Thighs he longed to touch and spread apart and feel. Still no petit lapin. He felt the wind knocked out of him.
"N-no, you're not –..." he was cut off by the swift slap, stinging and making his ears ring, blinded for a moment until he could focus on Francis. Those eyes, that expression. Every fucking time. Those eyes, the tempest never changed, never calmed.
"And remember it." he hissed through clenched teeth. He was gentle again for a moment, a tiger so ready to pounce that he could taste it, wanted to feel it drench his tongue. "I can love you, petit lapin." Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. Familiarity. "So long as you don't chain me."
Arthur smirked, pulling Francis down for another kiss, so gentle and feather like that it didn't resemble any kisses between them before. "How can I?" he asked, voice breathy against his lips.
How was one to go about taming a tiger and a tempest in one?