A Business Trip (England, Russia) - Pt 4
Title: A Business Trip
Characters: Russia, England
Warnings: Russia being a creeper
Summary: For chibi_spork, vaguely set in the same AU as Kiku Comes To Visit; with America edging closer to a very bad decision, England isn't sure what else to do.
Year: ~2050
Pt 1, Pt 2, Pt 3
Russia closed his eyes, smile blissful. That was not what England wanted. He pulled, harder, tighter, wanting the man to thrash and beg. Still nothing. The fuck?
He stood up, dragging Russia with him by the neck. He looked for something to fasten the end of the belt to, but there was nothing. Instead he pulled, hard, the skin around the leather turning white and then red. Russia's body stayed relaxed, the expression on his face calm. Frustrated-- inexplicably furious-- he lay the gun down, and smacked the man across the face. In an instant, he was pinned to the floor, an arm across his throat. “You put it down,” said Russia, tone sounded childishly disappointed. “I asked you not to do that.”
England elbowed him in the sternum, and used the moment of slack to get his hands back on the gun. “I don't understand the boner you've got for this thing. It's a hand gun. Surely you've seen them before.”
But Russia's face was close to his, and he was whispering-- “It reminds me, England, of how you used to be-- back when you mattered.”
England, expression unchanging, pulled Russia's head back by the hair, and shoved the gun into his mouth, deep enough for his trigger finger to hit tongue. He found himself wishing he'd brought something with a longer barrel; deep as it would go, the Browning barely hit the back of the man's throat. “I've head enough of your prattle,” he said, evenly. The man smiled, eyes half-closed, and let the thing slide another fraction of a centimeter in. England wanted to close his eyes; it was sick, it was indecent, it was so damn hot.
“If you let this fall out of your mouth,” he said, “I'll send you back to your seat, and we'll ride the rest of the way over watching a documentary.” It was mostly a bluff-- he wasn't sure he would stop now if Russia begged-- but he seemed to take him seriously enough. When he took his hand away, the man's cheeks were hollow with the suction it took to keep the heavy gun in place. England was almost impressed.
He'd been cooperative until then, but frankly, it made England nervous to see his hands free. Hunting around in the overhead racks, he came up with a piece of rope-- he chose not to speculate about why it was there-- and bound the man's hands quickly and efficiently behind his back. It wasn't the sort of thing one forgot how to do. Russia didn't fight him.
Anything you want, he'd said.
England ripped the gun out of his mouth, and grabbed him by the hair, sending him crashing into the floor of the plane. Still no noise. Fast as he could move, had a knee in the center of the man's back, yanking up on the end of the belt, gun against his skull. There was a small sound of pain, but instead of the rush of adrenaline and arousal that he expected, he felt an intense pang of disappointment. It was just a sound.
“I'm going to tear your shirt,” he informed the man beneath him. He wasn't really expecting a protest, and he didn't get one. The shirt was nice, for Russia, but despite his usual respect for clothing, it was hardly going to stop him. The knife in his pocket made quick work of it. He wasn't careful of the skin under the cloth, but he got no reaction. A high pain tolerance; Francis would have been blissed out and panting by now. A felt a pang. He hadn't told him where he was going.
He tied a strip of shirt across Russia's eyes, tying it tight, not bothering to be careful of pulling his hair. It would stay or it wouldn't, but for now-- yes, there was the arousal.
He sat back, knife in one hand, an expanse of pale back in front of him. His heart was beating fast; finally, finally, here was something he knew how to deal with.
Characters: Russia, England
Warnings: Russia being a creeper
Summary: For chibi_spork, vaguely set in the same AU as Kiku Comes To Visit; with America edging closer to a very bad decision, England isn't sure what else to do.
Year: ~2050
Pt 1, Pt 2, Pt 3
Russia closed his eyes, smile blissful. That was not what England wanted. He pulled, harder, tighter, wanting the man to thrash and beg. Still nothing. The fuck?
He stood up, dragging Russia with him by the neck. He looked for something to fasten the end of the belt to, but there was nothing. Instead he pulled, hard, the skin around the leather turning white and then red. Russia's body stayed relaxed, the expression on his face calm. Frustrated-- inexplicably furious-- he lay the gun down, and smacked the man across the face. In an instant, he was pinned to the floor, an arm across his throat. “You put it down,” said Russia, tone sounded childishly disappointed. “I asked you not to do that.”
England elbowed him in the sternum, and used the moment of slack to get his hands back on the gun. “I don't understand the boner you've got for this thing. It's a hand gun. Surely you've seen them before.”
But Russia's face was close to his, and he was whispering-- “It reminds me, England, of how you used to be-- back when you mattered.”
England, expression unchanging, pulled Russia's head back by the hair, and shoved the gun into his mouth, deep enough for his trigger finger to hit tongue. He found himself wishing he'd brought something with a longer barrel; deep as it would go, the Browning barely hit the back of the man's throat. “I've head enough of your prattle,” he said, evenly. The man smiled, eyes half-closed, and let the thing slide another fraction of a centimeter in. England wanted to close his eyes; it was sick, it was indecent, it was so damn hot.
“If you let this fall out of your mouth,” he said, “I'll send you back to your seat, and we'll ride the rest of the way over watching a documentary.” It was mostly a bluff-- he wasn't sure he would stop now if Russia begged-- but he seemed to take him seriously enough. When he took his hand away, the man's cheeks were hollow with the suction it took to keep the heavy gun in place. England was almost impressed.
He'd been cooperative until then, but frankly, it made England nervous to see his hands free. Hunting around in the overhead racks, he came up with a piece of rope-- he chose not to speculate about why it was there-- and bound the man's hands quickly and efficiently behind his back. It wasn't the sort of thing one forgot how to do. Russia didn't fight him.
Anything you want, he'd said.
England ripped the gun out of his mouth, and grabbed him by the hair, sending him crashing into the floor of the plane. Still no noise. Fast as he could move, had a knee in the center of the man's back, yanking up on the end of the belt, gun against his skull. There was a small sound of pain, but instead of the rush of adrenaline and arousal that he expected, he felt an intense pang of disappointment. It was just a sound.
“I'm going to tear your shirt,” he informed the man beneath him. He wasn't really expecting a protest, and he didn't get one. The shirt was nice, for Russia, but despite his usual respect for clothing, it was hardly going to stop him. The knife in his pocket made quick work of it. He wasn't careful of the skin under the cloth, but he got no reaction. A high pain tolerance; Francis would have been blissed out and panting by now. A felt a pang. He hadn't told him where he was going.
He tied a strip of shirt across Russia's eyes, tying it tight, not bothering to be careful of pulling his hair. It would stay or it wouldn't, but for now-- yes, there was the arousal.
He sat back, knife in one hand, an expanse of pale back in front of him. His heart was beating fast; finally, finally, here was something he knew how to deal with.