Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11872692.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Hetalia:_Axis_Powers
  Relationship:
      England/France_(Hetalia)
  Character:
      England_(Hetalia), France_(Hetalia), Prussia_(Hetalia), Spain_(Hetalia)
  Additional Tags:
      First_Love, First_Time, POV_First_Person, Virgin_Sacrifice, Gay_Sex
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-08-21 Words: 6202
****** How Not To Be A Virgin Sacrifice ******
by Shadowcatxx
Summary
     Fantasy AU. My name is Arthur Kirkland. I live in a remote village
     blessed by a benevolent god. He protects us, and he provides for us,
     and the only thing he asks for in return is one little virgin
     sacrifice. It's a small price to pay for the good lives we all live.
     Unless you happen to be a virgin, of course. Like me.
Notes
     WARNING: This story is intended for a mature audience and contains
     scenes that some readers may find offensive. If you are underage, I
     discourage you from continuing. However, if you are 16+ I bid you
     welcome and enjoy! Thank-you for your attention :)
     Please excuse my taking liberties with some character names &
     relationships.
     ALWAYS practice safe sex.
     CAST OF CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):
     ENGLAND — Arthur Kirkland
     PRUSSIA — Gilbert Beilschmidt
     SPAIN — Antonio Fernàndez Carriedo
     FRANCE — Francis Bonnefoi
     ROMANO — Lovino Vargas
My name is Arthur Kirkland. The village I live in is very remote. It's nestled
deep in the mountains. There is only one road in and out, a narrow footpath
that winds through the forest. A poet once called my village The Hidden Valley.
It's a beautiful, quiet place secluded from the outside world; protected from
war and famine and illness and poverty. The villagers are happy to pretend the
outside world is the myth instead of acknowledging the reality—that we are the
myth. The villagers in the valley live simple but comfortable lives blessed
with longevity. We have everything we could want and nothing we do not need.
The gods smile upon my village. Or, at least one of them does. One of the
plethora of nature gods, whose name is too long and complex for mortal tongues,
is the guardian of my village. He protects us, and he provides for us, and the
only thing he asks for in return is a virgin sacrifice.
                It's a rather small price to pay for the good lives we live,
everyone agrees. Unless you are between the ages of fourteen and sixteen (which
is the legal age of marriage in my village), there is nothing to fear.
                I have never been afraid before today.
                Today is my fourteenth birthday.
===============================================================================
I am the last of my friends to turn fourteen-years-old. As of today, I complete
the crop of newly matured sacrifices available to our benevolent god. It's only
a coincidence that my birthday happens to be on the day of the choosing, but to
me it feels like fate.
                I awoke this morning trembling and I'm still trembling at
midday. The choosing will happen at the stroke of midnight. It will happen
quietly and privately. The god will spirit away one of the villagers and no one
will be any the wiser until morning. I have exactly twelve hours to conceive of
a way to save myself. Otherwise, it will be me. I can't explain how I know
this, but I do.
                "They say the god prefers green-eyed boys," says Gilbert. He
throws a grape into the air and catches it in his mouth. "Green eyes are rare."
This is ironic coming from red-eyed Gilbert. If the god truly does prefer rare
looks, then Gilbert ought to be the most worried. The old village women call
him changeling because he looks more fey than boy. "I've heard tales," he says,
unperturbed, catching another ripe purple grape, "about boys who hack off their
pretty hair or dirty their skin or starve themselves to look skinny and ill,
all to make themselves look unappealing to the god, but nobody can change their
eyes. Not unless they cut them out!" he yells, moving suddenly.
                It frightens Antonio, who's been hanging on Gilbert's every
word. His big green eyes are wide in horror.
                "Do you think it will be me?" he asks fretfully.
                Gilbert nods sagely. "Yes, probably. You, or Art," he replies.
                I don't know why we're even listening to Gilbert. He's only the
eldest by a few precious months, and he's not even the most studious of us. He
likes to tell stories, boasting lies, but we're rapt. We're sitting in the
vineyard beneath the sun, surrounded by coiling vines as green as mine and
Antonio's eyes, huddled around Gilbert as if proximity to his loud self-
confidence will protect us. Gilbert likes this game. He likes being the centre
of our attention. He looks at us soberly, glancing from face-to-face, and
shakes his silvery head, like we're doomed men sentenced to death. (Truth be
told, Gilbert is kind of a dick.)
                Later, I'm walking home with Francis—my next-door neighbour—and
I'm panicking inside. I try to hide it for as long as I can, because the
thought of Francis' ridicule is worse than Gilbert's taunting, but we haven't
reached the village yet when I suddenly stop and blurt:
                "It's going to be me!"
                Francis sighs. "Don't pay attention to Gil, he's only trying to
scare you. The god has taken boys of every shape and size and colour without
showing a preference for any. The only consistency is that they're always,
always virgins."
                Francis' tone is soothing and logical. Like Gilbert, he's
unafraid of being chosen, even though he's the most beautiful boy in the
village. But unlike Gilbert, he truly has nothing to fear, because he's not a
virgin.
                "It's got nothing to do with Gilbert," I argue. Francis cocks
his head and blinks his blue eyes at me. His lashes are very long. "Francis," I
lower my voice, despite the emptiness of the forest, "I know it's going to be
me. I can feel it. When I woke up this morning, I just... I just..."
                When I was a small-er boy, I was often laughed at by my fellows
for proclaiming to see and hear things that weren't there; and I was scolded by
the adults for telling lies. Eventually, I stopped telling others what my
intuition told me, but that doesn't mean I stopped feeling it. It's a part of
me as much as my head and heart and hands, and it's never led me astray before.
It's never proven to be wrong. I always trust what it tells me, and right now
it's telling me that the god will choose me as his sacrifice.
                "Francis," I say, ashamed as tears flood my eyes, "I don't want
to die."
                Francis takes my hand. "Come with me," he says. He doesn't wait
before pulling me off the footpath into the forest.
                He leads me to the old abandoned watchtower we discovered long
ago. It's in the deepest, darkest part of the forest, a part we're not supposed
to visit. He pushes open the creaking wooden door and ushers me into the
circular chamber. It's dark. The only light filters in through the arrow-loops
near the top, colouring the hay-covered dirt floor golden in places. I've never
been afraid of the watchtower, but I flinch when Francis pulls the door closed
behind him, closing us both inside. I turn to ask him what he's planning, but I
never get the chance.
                He kisses me.
                It's the first kiss he and I have ever shared. It's the first
kiss I've ever shared with anyone, but not his. He's done this before. I can
tell by the way his lips brush against mine, whispering practice.
                I'm stunned speechless for a moment. Then I gasp and shove him
away.
                "What are you doing?" I demand, affronted by his unexpected
advance.
                Francis, however, doesn't look the least bit ashamed. In fact,
he looks serious.
                "The god only takes virgins, right?" he asks rhetorically,
taking a step toward me. (I hastily take a step back.) He looks at me very
deliberately, and says: "There's a cure for that."
                I gape at him, not sure if I ought to feel more shocked or
insulted. "It-It—It's not a disease!"
                "It might as well be if it's going to get you killed, Arthur!"
he shouts. His blue eyes suddenly look desperate and he quickly turns them
away. "I don't want to lose you," he says, very quietly.
                I feel dizzy. I stare at Francis in disbelief, waiting, but
he's not playing; he's not joking. There's no laughter in his blue eyes, only
fear and sadness and something else I don't recognize—tenderness, maybe. When
he finally lifts his head and looks at me, my heart skips a beat.
                "I-I—I don't want to lose me, either," I ineloquently reply.
                This time when he steps toward me, I don't retreat. I let him
come to me and I let him take my hand in his. I let him get really close,
nearly chest-to-chest. My heart is pounding; I wonder if he can feel it.
                "Arthur,chéri," he says, brushing a lock of wheat-blonde hair
off my forehead. His eyes are so blue, and his lashes are so long, and his
touch is so gentle as he caresses my cheek. "Let me save you."
                I pretend to consider it, but my heart has already decided.
                "Okay," I agree.
===============================================================================
Kissing him feels weird, at first. Francis has been my friend and next-door
neighbour for a long time. I've known him all my life, but I've never known him
like this. This is new. This is weird. Even though I've known him all my life,
I feel suddenly shy. I'm clumsy at kissing—I've never done it before. I press
my lips firmly to his, but I don't do much else. I let him lead, but it annoys
him. "Move your lips," he says, his voice muffled. I can taste his minty breath
in my mouth.
                "I can't," I say, pulling back. I give him a look. "This is
weird."
                "Why?"
                "Because it's you," I reply, thinking it obvious.
                But Francis doesn't think it's obvious. He cocks his hip and
his shoulders slant and he looks indignant for a minute, and it makes me wonder
what he's thinking in his curly, crafty head. Then he leans toward me again,
cupping the back of my head in guidance. "Then close your eyes," he suggests.
                I do, and it's better. It's better if I'm not looking at my
life-long friend as he becomes my first lover. Francis uses his hands to
distract me from the kisses. He strokes me—my cheek, my head, my neck—which is
weird, like he's trying to soothe a timid beast, but it's good-weird and it
works. I can feel myself yielding to him as he slips his tongue between my
lips. It's hot and slick and chases my tongue around the inside of my mouth. I
don't know what it's called or where he learnt to do it, but it feels weirdly
good. As we break for breath, I feel myself leaning into his body. It's a very
nice body, not too big or small. It's golden and dusted with a fine covering of
blonde hair. It's a couple of inches taller than my body, and a couple of
pounds heavier, and it has a small white scar on the back of the knee and a
lily-shaped birthmark low on the hip. It's agile and a lot faster than it is
strong. And it's always warm. I know these things because I know him. I've seen
him—all of him—countless times. (He's not shy.) But today will be the first
time in a long time that he sees all of me.
                "Wait, wait—stop," I say, grabbing his exploratory hand. It's
resting on my bare hip, about to creep up under my shirt.
                "It's okay," he purrs, kissing my neck. "It'll feel good—"
                "No."
                I spook and shove him.
                Taken by surprise, he stumbles back. Then he stares at me in
disbelief, a little upset, but mostly concerned as he awaits an explanation.
                "I'm sorry," I say honestly, avoiding eye-contact. "I just—I
can't. I can't have you touching me, it's too weird."
                Francis regards me pitifully, a soft look in his eyes. "Why?"
he asks.
                I shouldn't have to tell him why. He should know why. "Because
it's you!" I yell, rose-red in embarrassment.
                "Yes, it's me," he acknowledges. He rolls his shoulders,
shrugging cavalierly. "Better me than some stranger, don't you think? I'm your
best-friend, Arthur. I love you," he says unabashedly, "and I trust you. Don't
you trust me?"
                His voice is as smooth as golden honey, and his words are
earnest. My voice catches in my throat and I can't speak, so I merely nod.
                "Then doesn't that make it not weird?" he asks simply.
                Yes! says my heart without a doubt. But the rest of me is much
less certain. I look at my best-friend and I see the boy I've known for
fourteen years; the boy who's seen me at my best and worst; the boy who's been
the epicentre of the happiest, saddest, angriest, and most humiliating moments
of my life. We've been enemies almost as often as we've been friends, and I
suddenly realize what it is I'm so afraid of. I can't do this with him because
I can't bear the thought that this might change our relationship somehow for
the worse, making us permanent enemies; or at the very least, no longer best-
friends. I've seen it happen to villagers before and it's ugly. I don't want
that to be us. The truth is, I love him, too. And I'm more afraid of losing him
than I am of losing myself as a sacrifice.
                Apprehensive, I force myself to look at him—reallylook at him.
He's very patient. And he's very beautiful.
                "...are you going to laugh at me?" I mumble.
                His reply is stark and immediate. "No, of course not," he says.
"I promise."
                My fingers shake a little as I start to undress myself,
fumbling with the buttons of my shirt. I can feel his eyes on me, following the
decline of my torso as the shirt falls open, revealing my pale, freckled skin
underneath. I force myself to keep going, to push the sleeves off my shoulders
and let the shirt fall to the floor. I feel very exposed, but I've started now
and if I stop I might lose my nerve. I hook my thumbs beneath the waist of my
trousers and hesitate only for a second before I pull them down, relieving
myself of the only garb I had. There's nothing now to shield me from scrutiny.
Blushing from cheeks to naval, I step out of my clothes and stand in a patch of
golden sunlight, letting it kiss the goose-bumps on my skin as I await Francis'
opinion.
                He waits. And waits. It makes me so nervous, I press my knees
together and wrap my arms self-consciously around my middle.
                "You promised you wouldn't laugh!" I say when his lips curl.
                "I'm not." His smile grows, his eyes sparkle.
                "You're smiling!"
                "I'm smiling," he says slowly, letting his indulgent gaze
linger before meeting mine, "because I didn't realize how beautiful you are,
Arthur. All of you. I've wanted to see you like this for a long time."
                I swallow. I can feel myself blushing redder. My skin feels so
hot. "You shouldn't say things like that," I say.
                He cocks his head, his angelic curls tumbling around his
angular face. "Why not? We are about to be lovers."
                "Yes, but... when you say things like that, it makes me want to
believe you."
                "Please do, chéri, it's the truth."
                My knees go weak. Why does looking at him make me dizzy? Then
he starts to undress, too, and I'm flooded with feelings I've only ever felt
briefly before. I've seen Francis naked dozens of times, just as I've seen
Gilbert and Antonio, but this sensation is entirely new. I feel it in parts of
my body that I've been too shy to explore until now. I'm still too shy, but
Francis is not. He's a lot more comfortable in his skin than I am, and his
self-confidence is oddly reassuring. He kicks his clothes aside and smiles
seductively at me, which makes me equal parts happy and nervous. Then my eyes
land deliberately on his hanging cock and I take a step back.
                "Uh, actually..." I say, groping for my clothes, "I've changed
my mind."
                "What?" Francis looks shocked. Perhaps he had expected a
different reaction to his nudity. In retaliation, he snatches up my clothes
before I can reach them and tosses them aside, behind him. "Why not? What's
wrong, chéri?"
                "I-I-I—" I can't say it. It's too embarrassing.
                "Arthur, please tell me. I'll fix whatever it is."
                I recoil from him, but when his long-fingered hands land on me
his touch is safe and gentle and it promises no judgement. His blue eyes seem
to say: Trust me.
                "I-I-I—I don't think you can fix it," I say sheepishly,
glancing below his waist. "I-I-I—I don't think it's going to fit. It looks
bigger than usual."
                "What? No, it's the same size it always is—which is perfectly
proportionate to my body, thank-you," he adds, in case there was doubt. "You're
just nervous, chéri. Come here." He puts his arms around me, laying his hands
flat on the small of my back. "Just relax. I'm not going to hurt you," he says,
kissing me. It's nice, but I'm acutely aware of our naked bodies pressed close
together. He starts grinding his hips against mine and when our cocks touch, I
flinch. "It's okay," he whispers as he coaxes me slowly down into the hay. It's
soft and tickles me. My exposed skin is so sensitive that everything feels
magnified. It's not unpleasant right now. In fact, these external touches make
me shiver in giddy anticipation, but it's not enough to quell my nerves. I'm so
afraid that it'll hurt when he penetrates me. I don't want to feel pain
magnified like this.
                (I wonder if the god would accept what we've already done as
impure? Francis' skillful kisses and the feast of his nudity have already
provoked carnal thoughts in me that must have sullied my soul.)
                "Gah—!
                "Oh, uh, okay... wait, just wait for a second... Okay, I
just... just let me..." I'm babbling to distract myself from his plummeting
hand. It slides teasingly down my torso, over the slope of my flat stomach and
curls into a cup. "Wait, Fran—!" My plea dies on a gasp that turns into a high-
pitched yip, because he's grabbed my cock and is squeezing it, pumping it, like
he's trying to milk it, working his hand up-and-down the length in a way that
makes me squirm.
                "F-Fran-Francis, wait... please, I-I-I—uh, ah-hah,oh—N-no, n-0-
oh...  stop it... please, Fran, please don't—please, don't—
                "Don't stop."
                I close my eyes in surrender and the last thing I see is his
triumphant grin. I want to yell at him, but when my lips part it's to whine and
gasp and no coherent words come out. My body feels weak as Francis eases me
down onto my back. I can feel myself getting sweaty and wet and stiff. The knot
of tension budding in my pampered cock is very uncomfortable, but if he stops
his ministrations now I think I might cry. I don't even hear his whispered
reassurances as he strokes me, because his hand is magical. At least, it is
until he spits into his slicked palm and reaches under me.
                "Ach! What the hell are you doing?" I gasp, wriggling. His
slimy fingers prod at my backside, awaiting entry. "I don't want your spit
inside me! Gross!"
                Francis sighs demurely and shakes his head. "Oh, Arthur," he
chuckles, as if this is funny. (I knew he'd laugh at me! I knew it!) "I hate to
tell you this, chéri, but if you've got a problem with my saliva inside you,
then you're in for a big surprise later. Now, relax," he orders, crawling
between my spread legs. His hand gropes my backside before his index-finger
sneaks in.
                "Wait! Fran—?"
                He looks at me.
                I swallow my trepidation. "Go slow, okay?"
                He nods.
                It's weird. Oh, gods—it's so weird. His index-finger delves
into me and begins poking around at the fleshy walls of my insides. It's deep,
from fingertip to knuckle. His knuckles prod at my backside, kneading my skin.
Then he slips his middle-finger in, too, and starts scissoring them both. He's
stretching me, preparing me for his cock's girth, I know that, but it hurts.
His left hand continues to rub up-and-down my cock, but the intrusive
scissoring of his right hand is hard to ignore. His head is bowed and his brow
is pinched in concentration, as if he's struggling to remember the guidelines
from a manual. When I suddenly yelp, he flinches.
                "Ouch!"
                "What is it? What's wrong?" he says in concern.
                "Get out,get out of me!" I order, reaching down to yank on his
wrist. I use him as leverage to pull myself into a sitting position and examine
his long, wet fingers. "Trim your nails before you do that!" I say, angry about
the flecks of blood caked under his fingernails.
                "Oh." He pales a little. "Oh, sorry."
                His apology is hoarse and his eyes stare widely in horror at
the blood. It's a novice enough reaction for me to reconsider his prior
declaration. "Oh?" I repeat suspiciously. "Francis, you have... done this
before, right?"
                "Yes," he blurts. It's too fast and too anxious to be true. "I
mean, technically yes. I've practiced it—"
                "Wait," I say in disbelief, inching away from him. It's a
struggle; my cock is still uncomfortably stiff. "You've had sex before, right?"
                "Uh, well... not technically, but—"
                "What the bloody-hell do you mean not technically? I thought
you knew what you were doing!" I accuse him, feeling flustered and not a little
betrayed. "You told us you weren't a virgin!"
                He breaks. "I lied, okay? I didn't want anyone to think I might
be chosen as a sacrifice!" he shouts, wide-eyed and blushing.
                It's then I realize how scared he is, too. I can see it. My
fear is reflected in his eyes. He purses his lips and sits back on his knees,
spread to accommodate his cock's girth, and he looks at me beseechingly.
                "Please, Arthur," he says. (Are those tears I see?) "I don't
want to die.
                "And I don't want you to die either," he adds in the proceeding
silence. He shifts closer and takes my hands. He's always been physically
affectionate with me—just me—but it's not playfulness in his touch now. It's
desperation. "I really do love you," he admits, squeezing my hands. "I couldn't
bear it if tonight proves the end for one of us, so let's save each other,
okay? Come on, Arthur. I'm sorry I hurt you. I didn't mean to. I won't do it
again," he babbles, losing his self-confidence with every panicked word. "I'll
go nice and slow, I promise. You can tell me if you don't like it and I'll
stop, I promise," he repeats earnestly, squeezing my hands. "Please?"
                I want to say no. I want to deny the feelings bubbling inside
of me like a witch's brew, but I can't. I can't deny my friend when he's
looking at me like this. This naked vulnerability is something I've never seen
in him before, and it makes me feel tender in reply, like maybe Ineed to
protect him.
                "Okay," I relent, sighing deeply. "But only if you stop lying
to me," I add sternly. "If you lie to me again, I'll... I'll... I'll find
someone else to take my virginity," I threaten emptily. "Maybe Antonio, he's
scared, too."
                "No, no, no," Francis panics. "I'm here. I'm here for you,
chéri." He kisses my hand in proof. "I'll be good to you, I promise."
===============================================================================
Francis urges me down. I lay on my back with my legs spread, feeling like an
animal displaying itself to attract a mate. Francis crawls between my legs and
I instinctively press my skinny thighs to his sides. He slides his hands up my
legs, from knobbly knees to narrow hips, then leans down over me and captures
my lips chastely. It's soft and his eyes are open, focused on me. He's not
trying to show-off, now. He's kissing me to prove a point, that his intentions
are honest. He grinds his wider hips against mine, rubbing our slick erections
together. The fleshy skin-to-skin friction makes me mewl in want. It's both
agonizing and arousing. The scent of Francis' body—sweat and musky
semen—tickles my nose and makes me wrap my arms around his neck, something
primal and instinctive inside of me drawn to that promising scent. I hold him
really close and inhale the pale scent of his perfumed curls, so soft. I nose
his neck, then shyly plant an experimental kiss on it. Once, twice. My brain is
foggy with arousal, which I blame for my sudden desire to taste his skin. It's
not freckled, like mine; it's firm and smooth and tanned and perfect. I lick
the base of his neck as I suck the tender skin. (Unbeknownst to me, my lips are
sucking in rhythm with his rolling hips.) I get over-zealous and bite him, and
the noise he makes is almost enough to finish me. It's a guttural groan pulled
unexpectedly from the back of his throat. I like it so much that I want to hear
it again. I start to drag my hand slowly down his torso, but stop when I
accidentally graze his hardened nipple. It makes him shudder and groan, so I
linger. I palm his pectoral and press my thumb firmly down on his nipple before
releasing it, massaging the skin, and this time he whines and bites his lip.
                "Arthur," he gasps, resting his forehead on my shoulder. The
rest of his body is arched and tense, corded like a braided-rope. He kisses my
shoulder. I can feel his wet breath. He says: "I can't wait any longer. I'm
going to do it now, okay?"
                My heart pounds in reply, but I'm ready. I think.
                "O-okay," I say, draping my arms over his shoulders. I need
something to clench, so I grab fistfuls of his long ash-blonde hair. I feel his
weight lessen as he lifts his hips and reach down to guide his cock into me. I
feel its weeping head lick my throbbing entrance, prodding gently, slowly. I
can feel his warm knuckles bumping my backside clumsily as he searches for the
best angle to enter from; as he urges me open with his fingers; then as he
removes his fingers and squeezes his adolescent cock inch-by-inch inside. I'm
glad I can't see what he's doing. It feels weird enough. His cock is as stiff
as fibreboard and swollen with seed and my body resists the intrusion. I start
to cry and dig my fingers into his tense shoulder-blades, pulling on his hair.
"F-Fran..." I whimper. My heart is palpitating and my whole body is trembling.
"S-Stop."
                He stops, half-submerged in me.
                I'm starting to doubt what we're doing—rather, how we're doing
it. I'm thinking that maybe this isn't the best position for us. Maybe I should
be on my hands-and-knees, my backside exposed like an animal, but his voice
quiets my panic.
                "It's okay," he whispers, cupping the back of my head. He
kisses my temple. "It's okay, chéri. We're almost there."
                "Go slow," I request.
                "Yes," he promises.
                I can't see it, but I can feel it and imagine what it must look
like: the long, hard proof of his proud manhood pushing slowly but steadily
into my defenceless body; the walls of my insides stretching to accommodate the
foreign appendage's girth, it's forceful penetration.
                "Wait—stop," I beg. I shift a fraction, then permit him to
continue. "Okay, go ahead. Just a bit—!"
                "Okay?"
                "Yes." I shift again and spread my legs a little wider, sinking
down against him, lifting my hips. I can feel him moving inside of me. It's so
weird, but it sends an excited shiver down my spine. "Okay, go ahead.
                "Go ahead," I repeat impatiently. (Is that squeaky sound my
voice?)
                He chuckles. "That's it." His voice is soft in breathlessness.
"That's all of it. That's me."
                I swallow, struck my the simplicity of his words. This is it.
I've got my best-friend inside of me. We're lovers, now. It's a bit dizzying—or
maybe that's the mix of pain and pleasure I'm feeling.
                "I'm going to start moving, okay?"
                I hug him tighter. "Okay."
                He pulls back—out—a bit and the pressure momentarily lessens,
then doubles as he slides back in. I make a noise very much like, "Ugh!" as my
hips involuntarily buck. He does it again and again and again, pulling out a
little further and then sinking in deeper each time. It's slow to start, but as
he finds a jolting rhythm it gets faster. Soon, I'm thrusting just as fervently
as he is—though, less intentionally—my backside rocking along in the hay,
burrowing down until we've created a divot. I can feel my bare skin brushing
along the dirt floor, but it's a distant acknowledgement. Francis' clumsy
thrusts are at the forefront of my mind, making me half-mad with sensation.
                "Ah—! O-oh,uh—nn,a-hah—a-ah! F-France—F-Fran—F-F-F—uck!"
                In retrospect, I'll wish I had tried to keep my mouth shut, but
in the heat of the moment I cry-out in sweet agony, urging him on with my gasps
and moans; clawing at his back, pulling his hair; bucking my hips to increase
the pressure of every fervent thrust.
                "Please—please—please—!" I beg.
                My sober self would be mortified that I was begging Francis
Bonnefoi for anything, but my lust-drunk self is so desperate for release I'll
say anything, do anything, to achieve climax. Francis' actions have had a
profound impact on my cock—literally—and I feel like I'm going to burst any
second. His right hand never lets go of my cock as the rest of him moves back-
and-forth. It's not really pumping anymore, too distracted, but it doesn't
really matter. I've already bypassed my limit. In proof, my cock releases and I
ejaculate milky semen all over Francis' lower-body. I'm a little embarrassed
that I climaxed first, but he's close behind me. His grunt is half-strangled as
he gives one final thrust and then I can feel his hot, sticky seed release
inside of me. I'm still holding him, my mouth forming a silent O in shock. A
single tear rolls down my face as I gasp for breath. Francis wobbles and
collapses on top of me.
                It's been approximately six minutes.
===============================================================================
I don't know how long we lie there for, unmoving. My body is still trembling,
but now I'm numb to it. I'm unaware of everything but Francis' hot, sweaty,
sticky figure draped over me. He tilts his head and looks up at me, and when he
does his eyes are bluer than I've ever seen them, his cheeks are flushed, his
lips are swollen, and he's never looked so beautiful. Absently, I wonder if I
look the same. (Secretly, I hope I do.)
                "Arthur, chéri," he says sleepily. The change in him is
unbelievable, eager and lively only minutes ago, now sluggish in fatigue. He
grins lopsidedly. "You're not a virgin anymore."
                I laugh giddily and pet his damp curls. "Neither are you."
                Eventually, we force ourselves to get up and get dressed.
Francis grabs a handful of hay to wipe himself off, then does me, and I laugh
aloud because it tickles and I still feel drunk. The sweat on my skin has
cooled and I shiver as I pull on my trousers. As I'm stepping back into them,
my legs buckle and I lose my balance, falling weakly against Francis.
                "Are you okay?" he asks kindly.
                My legs feel like gelatin and my backside aches and it hurts to
move let alone walk, but I say: "Yes," and bite my tongue. Francis has already
seen me shudder and heard me beg. I refuse to sacrifice another shred of my
dignity to him—because of him.
                In proof, I set out from the watchtower. Francis lets me set
the pace, which is slow but consistent. We don't talk, but he takes my hand and
holds it, threading his fingers through mine. I let him. It feels nice holding
him, even if it's just a small part. As we walk, I wonder how what we've just
done will affect us. What will our families and friends think if they discover
the truth? And what will I do if they don't? Is this a secret for Francis and I
to share forevermore but never speak of? Are we to maintain our friendship as
if nothing has changed? Or, does tonight mark the beginning of something new?
As we walk, I brace myself for fear and guilt and worry to swarm me, but we've
nearly reached the village now and still those negative feelings have stayed at
bay. It's then that I realize how content I feel, peaceful in a way that I've
never been before. I wonder briefly if it's maturity that accompanies the loss
of one's innocence, but it's a fleeting thought because, right now, I don't
care. Right now, I'm happy to simply feel safe and satisfied and—I blush,
casting a glance at Francis, my lover—loved for the very first time.
                The first time, I consider privately, but hopefully not the
last.
                Before we pass beneath the village gate, Francis and I
simultaneously stop. He looks at me, and I look at him, and we're both smiling,
an intimate secret passing between us. Then, in sync, we return to the village.
We both left it this morning as boys, but we're returning to it changed. Not
quite men, but no longer children. We're lost somewhere in the middle, now, but
at least we're lost together. And I'm happy. Because there's no one else I
would rather navigate this new world with, however clumsily, than my best-
friend, Francis Bonnefoi.
                On the cobblestone path between our identical timber houses,
Francis kisses me goodnight and says he'll see me in the morning. It's a simple
farewell, but I smile because it's true. Unlike all the other fourteen-year-old
villiagers, I'll sleep soundly tonight, secure in the fact that I won't
be—can't be—chosen, because I no longer qualify as a suitable sacrifice for our
benevolent god. And neither does Francis.
                "Thank-you," I whisper, my teasing tone lowered for privacy,
"for saving my life."
                He brushes a lock of wheat-blonde hair off my forehead and
softly caresses my cheek. "Thank-you for saving mine."
                Then we both slip into our opposite houses, silent as specters.
We may not know what the fates have in store for us, but—tonight, at
least—we're no longer afraid.
===============================================================================
THE NEXT DAY
You're still here!" Antonio cheers, leaping at me. I stumble back as he crashes
into me, buckling beneath his weight. "I thought for sure that if it wasn't me,
it would be you!" he says, studying my face, my green eyes.
                "I'm still here," I confirm, pushing on his chest. I won't say
it aloud, but I'm glad it wasn't Antonio or Gilbert who were chosen either.
(I'll admit to worrying a wee bit for Antonio's sake, but even I can't fathom
why the god—or anyone—would want Gilbert.) The fey-like boy stands a couple of
paces away, scrutinizing me through narrowed red eyes. I try to look
nonchalant, but when Francis' lazy voice calls-out to us, I can feel myself
blush in reply.
                "Franny!" Antonio hollers. He abandons me and throws himself
into Francis' arms, hugging him in relief. (I wonder if Gilbert received the
same salutation this morning?) "I'm so glad you weren't chosen to die! I wasn't
either!" he says needlessly.
                Francis laughs. "Toni, chéri, we've been over this. I can't be
the god's sacrifice, not ever. I'm not pure enough for his purpose."
                Antonio cocks his dark head and blinks, but it's Gilbert who
speaks.
                "Not pure, huh? Sure. And what's your excuse?" he says, boring
his eyes suspiciously into mine.
                I want to sound as suave and sophisticated as Francis, but my
cheeks blush rose-red and I trip on my tongue when I say: "Well, I... I mean,
I'm not... I'm no longer... suitable... either..."
                My voice fades as Gilbert's eyes widen incredulously. He
glances between Francis and I, silvery head going back-and-forth like a
pendulum before he barks in laughter. "Oh, gods!" he howls, piecing together
our coy smiles and blushing faces to form a picture. "Did you two really—? You
did!" His voice dissolves in laughter.
                I'm livid in embarrassment (why am I friends with these
people?), but Francis—shallow sod—merely rolls his eyes. In fact, he looks
smug.
                "What?" Antonio ponders, confused. "What did you do?" he asks
us.
                Gilbert wipes a pearly tear from his eye and answers the query
before either of us can. "Franny and Art cured themselves—I mean, each other—of
the god's curse."
                "Cured?"
                "The cure for virginity, Toni."
                I can see the moment it hits Antonio, because his green eyes
alight with understanding. An impish grin curls his lips, and I mentally
prepare myself for a joke or jest, but Antonio's joyful epiphany is not
directed at me. Or any of us. Without a goodbye, he takes off jogging down the
street, like a boy renewed of hope. At the tallest, richest house in the
village, he stops, and we can all hear him yelling happily:
                "Lovi, come down here! Hurry! I know the cure!"
===============================================================================
                                      FIN
THANK-YOU for reading. Reviews are always welcome and appreciated :)
AUTHOR'S NOTE:For those of you who enjoy Fantasy AUs and the "virgin sacrifice"
trope, I'm happy to recommend Sacrifice by Crowsnight66. It's a truly beautiful
one-shot about deepest love and friendship, and definitely worth the read.
Cheers!
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
er
things are happening around him, Stiles is sure. He can vaguely hear the sounds
of fighting around him but he’s kind of transfixed by the sight of the giant
brown wolf calmly tearing the throat out of the woman at his feet. The wolf
sits up and Stiles would swear it was preening in satisfaction.
“It’s about time old man. You sure took your time getting here. The arthritis
acting up? And since when have you been an actual wolf?” Stiles’ voice shakes
but he thinks it’s just the cold.
The wolf shakes his coat and in one bone melting move, Peter is standing in
front of him.
“Hello, Petal,” he says, resting his forehead lightly against Stiles’.
“Right in the face. I swear,” Stiles murmurs. “As soon as someone unties me.”
Someone is, in fact, untying him and Stiles will be really grateful about that
as soon as he stops shivering.
“It’s really cold,” he complains.
“You’re bleeding rather heavily,” Peter tells him.
“It’s probably that,” he agrees.
Then someone’s wrapping him in a jacket and picking him up. Stiles would
protest but he’s too busy burrowing into the warm, warm chest he’s cradled
against. It’s Derek, he thinks, because Derek always smells like Ivory soap, he
remembers because that’s what his mother always used and the first time he
smelled it on Derek he was hit by a pang of loss so sharp it had him almost
bent double. But he’s used to it now. He likes it. He thinks about how Derek
tries so hard and almost always screws up, but he never gives up. Life beats
the crap out of him but he always stands back up. Stiles likes that. His mom
would have too. He’ll be a good Alpha one day. Stiles should remember to tell
him that. After he wakes up.
~
Stiles gets 36 stitches, a blood transfusion and a giant fruit basket. The note
says:

             Found your list. You’re not going to die of scurvy.
He also gets to spend an hour and a half giving an official statement because
there was no real way to explain Stiles’ injuries other that the truth. Mostly.
He left out the werewolves and let Derek claim responsibility for getting him
to the hospital.
The hospital keeps him overnight for observation and he wakes up in the very
early morning hours to a heavy weight at the foot of the bed.
“There you are,” he whispers sternly to Luna, who’s looking particularly
adorable curled up like she is.
“You’re useless. What kind of magical unicorn are you, leaving me all
defenseless in the woods like that. Shouldn’t you have been able to sense I
needed help? I think you’re defective.” He nudges her with his foot and smiles
when she lifts her head, blinks lazily at him and then goes back to sleep.
~
Later Stiles learns that the ritual Ms. Blake used was meant to open a door
between worlds. Peter explains it as a sort of supernatural wormhole. He calls
it piercing the veil. When the knife nicked him the first time it drew just
enough to blood to open a little tear. The tear worked as a beacon, drawing all
sorts of elements to the area. When Ms. Blake had translated the ritual she’d
read a particular word as “virginal” when in fact the ritual really required a
different attribute entirely.
“What’s that?” Stiles asks.
“Devotion. Complete, whole-hearted, idiotic devotion,” Peter says as they sit
together on his couch watching tv. “Someone who gives themselves truly, wholly
and tenaciously. In the old times they would be acolytes, priests or
priestesses who would give themselves freely to the service of the ritual.
Blake just got incredibly lucky that she grabbed you.”
“I’m 'devoted'.”
“Well you have the idiot part down.”
“Mean." Stiles glares.
"Let's ask Lydia, or Scott, or your father for their opinion, shall we?"
"Right. Ok. Point taken. It still sounds like a load of crap.”
Peter, who is a dick, actually smirks.
Stiles settles back against the couch and picks up a book while Peter turns his
attention to the tv. It’s four o'clock and apparently Nick and Sharon are
getting back together today. Stiles doesn’t pretend to understand Peter’s
strange obsession with The Young and the Restless. He thinks it might come from
his days in the hospital. It’s weird, but Stiles likes knowing these little
quirks that no one else does. Likes knowing that Peter paints his walls warm
colors and has blankets in every room and stocks his pantry with the hottest
food he can find because he’s always cold. He likes knowing that Peter has a
file bookmarked on his computer labelled “knotting”, which he’s pretty sure is
porn, and one day soon he’s going to make Peter show him. He’s collecting
things about Peter and making a new list. It seems more productive than
worrying about how he’s going to die. That’s somewhere off in the future.
Peter’s here now. They have their problems, of course. Lydia’s not talking to
him. He doesn't really blame her. Derek still glares and acts like a 19th
century companion whenever Stiles and Peter are in the same room together.
Scott’s cool though. They just agreed never ever to talk about their sex lives
with each other. Ever. There’s still a tear in the fabric of time and space, or
whatever, and he’s pretty sure that he has permanently acquired a unicorn. Also
his stitches itch. A lot.
So maybe it’s not perfect. Peter’s a decade and a half older than Stiles, at
least, and difficult to understand on a good day, not to mention that Stiles is
pretty sure he’s plotting some kind of terrifying world domination that
probably doesn’t include him. There is no happy ever after here. It’s not a
love story. But it’s his story. And Stiles is good with that.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!