Title: Battle At Pavia
Warning: Dub-con (sex with dubious consent), extreme historical inaccuracy, strong and offensive language (Francis is a homophobe), and homosexual sex. This warning will only be posted on the first chapter; please, no flames. If you don't like any of this, then don't read it.
Pavia Battlefield, 1525
As soon as I'm shoved into the tent I know that he'll be there. The guard – another fag apparently – slaps me on the ass as he pushes me into the dimly lit room and I jump and bristle at his touch, causing him to laugh with delight. I ignore the traitorous bolt of desire the harsh smack sends shooting through my flesh.
I stumble on my way in but I manage to right myself before I topple over. The guard gives my ass one last lecherous squeeze, cupping my buttocks in his hand and groping it humiliatingly, before cackling with quiet, malicious laughter and leaving. Behind me I hear the heavy tent flap drop back into place and I know I am alone with him.
Charles. Charles, King of Spain, Holy fucking Roman Emperor and Archduke of Austria. A mere boy of twenty-five years, six younger than my thirty-one. In this room I am at his mercy, and I know exactly what he wants with me. To do 'to' me, I should say. It's what he's wanted to do ever since we first met, over six years ago at his coronation as Holy Roman Emperor. He was just nineteen and heck, there I was thinking how cute he looked in his posh little coronation get-up and he fucking shoves me up against the wall and jams his tongue down my throat.
I'd shoved him off. He was smaller then, (okay, he was pretty much my height) and let's face it, he had no army to back him up hiding around the corner yet, so I'd stalked off, fuming and a dazzling shade of fuchsia, but not before I had punched the newly crowned, some-say Holy Roman Emperor in the stomach.
He's not a kid anymore though, I remind myself with dismay. He's the most powerful man in Europe - heck, probably even in the world – and What Charles Wants, Charles Gets. And at the moment, whether it's a power-play, some sadistic display of dominance or his own perverted lust, he wants me. King Francis, ironically, of France. His sworn arch-nemesis.
My pulse quickens, my heart hammering at my ribs as if it wants to burst out of my chest, but I refuse to look up at him. I know that there is no escape. And I'm scared; I don't want what he's going to do to me. But I swear to God, this beautiful little slut has got one hell of a fight coming to him if he thinks he's in complete control of this situation yet.
And no, I did not just call him beautiful.
A/N: Hey people, I hoped you liked this.
It's completely historically inaccurate, from what happens, how they speak/think, to the clothes they wear. I chose Francis and Charles as protagonists of this as the idea of romantically (or sexually) attracted arch-enemies appealed to me. Aside from names, etc., their personalities and the other information included is not based on the real people.
This will be regularly updated, as quite a few of the (very short) chapters are already written.
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