The Cost of Affection

(I'm not going to list the pairings this time; you'll find out as you go)

R18

Author's Notes:

Dedicated to Purple Riceball/Tokyo-Milk - it's your birthday present, darling, even though this isn't quite . . . birthday-present material. But I hope you like it anyway. ^^

Many thanks to Janigrl, who has agreed to beta this story. XD

WARNING: there is going to be blunt, unromantic sex. And (since I've planned this out in advance) I'm going to say right now, without giving spoilers, that there are going to be certain events/revelations later in the story that will most likely make some readers uncomfortable. It's not an untouched subject (in fact, I've seen so much of it, I kind of want to throw up, haha), but I want to shed light on it in a way different from what already exists in the fandom. And it's not going to be pretty.

So please bear with me - and you're welcome to stop reading any time you want. I'll understand. But even so, I still want to know what you thought of it, so please take ten seconds to review, okay? Reviews change a writer's world in a way that writing itself can't.

And, like always, Hetalia is mine in heart only, not in ownership. :/

-x-x-x-

One

Exhaustion. It overtook Arthur's senses until he could barely think, barely comprehend what was happening, even though it was what he got himself into night after night. The sheets scraped against his back in an uncomfortable, tedious rhythm that made his skin ache and his heavy eyelids feel even heavier. He hoped it would be over soon.

Out of habit, he reached down the length of his nude body and spread his fingers, forking them around the thick cock buried deep inside him as if he was trying to stretch himself open even farther. He threw his head back in contrived ecstasy. He'd learned long ago that customers often paid more after hearing him moan and gasp, after watching him put on a sexy, raunchy show. The finger trick was a good visual, something that helped his image and the concept behind it. Something that appeared to say, I'm a whore; I was made to be fucked and abused.

Not that it wasn't the truth. But it was a truth that needed constant reinforcement if he wanted others to believe it.

The dick pistoning in and out of him stopped and twitched. Arthur had to fight back a grimace. He hated that, hated when the client had such a huge shaft that he could feel it spasming inside him like a live, skittery animal.

Cum filled his passage as the thing shuddered through its climax. Arthur arched his back and tightened his sphincter obediently, drew a moan out of the man as he milked him, then let his body collapse back onto the hotel bed. He tried not to curse as the cock was yanked out of him without warning — suppressed it into a shaky inhale instead — and lay still, allowing the sticky, foreign moisture to leak down the curve of his backside and onto his thighs. It was always what the customer wanted to see. It was what they all wanted to see, every single one of them, no matter their level of depravity or experience. Arthur supposed it was because it made it seem like he belonged to them.

To them, the semen now lining his skin in disgusting trails was an indication of his being dominated, proof that he'd been beaten into submission and turned into a nice, compliant fuck toy without actually making his "owner" go through the hassle of getting there. Like a cheat of sorts — a shortcut. Or maybe it was just some sick fantasy that the client, due to one reason or another, was unable to fulfill in his normal life and instead saved it for prostitutes and hotel rooms.

Arthur couldn't claim to know the whys and wherefores behind his clients' preferences. He was a whore, not a psychologist, and frankly, he liked it better that way. Psychologists had more to deal with than he did, what with analyzing charts and tracking behavioral patterns and putting up with the general stupidity of the human race. Or whatever it was that psychologists did for a living.

All he had to do was spread his legs, please the customer, and take the money. And that was that. The intelligence of the client had no factor in what they did, except when it was to ask whether or not Arthur was capable of bending himself into a physically impossible position, or if he would mind riding because missionary apparently strained the pelvis or some other bullshit like that.

Overall, compared to a lot of people, he had it easy. He didn't have to direct his own life and sort out the problems that were hurtled his way; others did it for him. It came part and parcel with his occupation.

And Arthur was completely fine with it. He couldn't imagine any other sort of life.

"Hey."

The word made Arthur snap back to the present. He lifted his head. "Yes?" he said warily, looking up at his client. There was rarely conversation or any interaction at all, aside from fucking, foreplay, and handing over the cash (and sometimes not even that, because Gilbert took care of most of the financial matters). The names uttered in the heat of the moment — names of exes, of family members, even of children, all forbidden loves that shouldn't have existed yet still did — usually passed him by; he'd learned to ignore them, let them wash over him in meaningless waves. He had no right to pry into the business of others . . . and he had no desire to do so, anyhow. The best thing to do was act like it never happened; like he didn't hear the man who muttered about his dead wife, didn't hear another one whispering his son's name while he rammed into Arthur over and over as if the world was falling apart. Arthur didn't want to know, so he didn't listen.

But this one, this client, was talking directly to him. And it wasn't until Arthur focused on him amid the dimmed lights in the room that he recognized the stony face and stiff military posture and blue-violet eyes. His stomach twisted.

"Yes?" he repeated, his voice colder.

The man shifted. "Don't tell him. Don't tell Feli that I've been seeing you." He was wringing his hands nervously, glancing at the closed door like his sweet little Italian boyfriend might be standing behind it, listening in.

Arthur almost couldn't believe it. What reason did he have to tell? Why would he care at all? And it wasn't like he saw Feliciano walking down the street every day. What had happened there would stay there, within that dark hotel room, if only because there was no way to find the betrayed lover and whisper poison into his ear. "I won't tell him," he said flatly, and resisted the temptation to add, Though you might want to say something to Gilbert. He, unlike me, knows the both of you, and he never keeps his mouth shut.

"Danke," Ludwig said quietly, so quietly that it was almost a whisper. Arthur pretended not to hear him and turned his head into the pillow, curling his legs under him. He would have to take a quick shower once he was alone. And he was tired, his eyes raw and gritty beneath their lids. . . .

He was drifting off when he heard the sound of the door opening, then clicking closed again as the German stepped out, presumably to find his brother to pay him the money he owed for taking Arthur to bed.

It was a sound that Arthur could never seem to stop hearing.