[ oneshot ] Stagelights [ France/Spain, Hetalia ]
Title: Stagelights
Author: frostberryjam
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,250.
Pairing: France/Spain
Warnings: Mindless smut with no redeemable qualities of any kind, crossdressing.
Summary: It’s Christmas eve and Spain has an unexpected gift for France.
Author Notes: Partial credit goes to youkofujima for this fic. We tend to do a lot of ‘scenes‘ randomly when we go off on a ’what if’ tangent. This was based off one of those scenes.
The tavern is dark save for the single candle placed on each of the dozen hardwood tables, wicks burning brightly in the chilly December air that filters through cracks in the old building.
The golden glow of the candles reveals that the tavern has only one customer this evening.
France sits at a table near the darkened stage, wearing a sharp black suit that molds itself to his body perfectly. In his pocket is a squeeze-tube of lube and draped over the chair across from him is the long jacket he had worn outside. It is Christmas Eve and Spain is keeping him in suspense about his gift.
He smokes a cigarette, thinking back on their past to pass the wait. They have been celebrating Christmas for hundreds of years but the gift-giving tradition is relatively new by their standards. Spain remains as exuberant about it as he was on their first tentative Christmas not spent on their knees on cold stone in a church. France would be satisfied with the present being the next twenty-four hours spent unproductively in a bed but he loves Spain all the more for still wanting to surprise him.
Suddenly the bottom row of the stage lights turn on. France pauses with the cigarette halfway to his mouth and watches with growing interest. He had thought that perhaps he’d be getting a Christmas Eve dinner but apparently what he’s getting is a show for music starts to pour from hidden speakers.
And France's heart does a strange thing; it stops dead and then it speeds up. He recognizes that mellow little tune that will at any moment turn into a jaunty mess of notes. He crushes the cigarette into a scarred ashtray and is already standing when a leg peeks out from behind the curtains, wearing a pretty little red high-heeled shoe.
Then Spain steps out into the light, curtains swishing shut behind him.
He wears a corset dress that is dyed burgundy and flows in a long skirt with lacy white petticoats underneath. He moves with a sinewy grace to the rhythm of the music and grips the skirts, raising them high enough to reveal that he is wearing stockings underneath.
France moves closer like a man hypnotized to the stage. It’s ridiculous, of course, the dress is meant for soft curves and not the lean lines of the male body. But Spain’s smile is bright and infused with pleasure and a little embarrassment. He even winks at France, who stands at the foot of the stage now and stares up at him.
The soft music kicks into high gear and Spain spins sharply, the skirt rising and whipping through the air.
France's mouth goes dry. Garters. Spain is wearing garters. And doing the cancan.
He performs an amateurish rond de jambe and reveals he's not wearing underwear, the way the cancan used to be done.
France decides he wants to unwrap his present now.
He puts a hand on the stage and Spain pauses in surprise. The music continues to play.
"Wait--" Spain is dense but he's not stupid and he recognizes that glint in France's eyes as he hauls himself up over the edge. He rises fluidly onto his feet, grabs him by the hips and drags Spain against his body.
"You didn't even let me finish the first minute." Spain sputters, annoyed because he's worked for weeks on learning how to do all this in high heels.
"Trust me; there is nothing you can do to make me happier than to let me touch you." France purrs, running his hands across the beautiful dress in wonder and deciding that it's going to stay on. He strokes and squeezes Spain's ass through the folds of the skirt and then grips his thighs, urging one leg up. Spain reluctantly wraps it around him and stops looking so distressed.
He still breathes, "I worked really hard on this." as France lowers him to the stage floor and follows, kneeling between his legs.
"Yes. I can tell." France sheds his jacket and undoes his wrist cuffs, admiring the tableau Spain makes on the floor. He's not wearing makeup but his eyelashes are naturally long and sooty. He doesn’t need any.
With impatience France rolls up his sleeves and then pushes the skirt high enough to reveal the garters. He palms the texture of the stockings and then digs his nails in, tearing long lines. Spain makes a sound of confusion before France bends down and begins kissing his way up the long legs, pausing to suck through the stockings hard enough to leave marks.
"Couldn't you wait?" Spain asks still, laughing nervously and cock hardening. He tries to close his legs, shaking. The air is cold but he feels hot.
France lifts his head and places his hands on Spain's knees. "Amour, you can moan or you can shut up. Complaining is not an option, comprenez-vous?" He gives Spain a quick peck on the mouth before spreading his legs open. With some maneuvering he plants his mouth on Spain's inner thigh and drags his teeth across the garter, biting with intent to mark.
Spain's mouth is open but nothing comes out but a deep moan. France pushes the dress over his hips and nuzzles his balls, tongue massaging the sac tenderly. The heels of the pretty red shoes bite into his sides as Spain puts his hand over his mouth to stifle a moan. The sounds they're making are suddenly vibrating in the air as the music ends, plunging the room into silence.
The candles continue to glow in the dark audience, wax dripping down in steady rivulets.
France digs the tube out of his pocket and flips the top open with his thumb as he slowly jacks Spain off, occasionally kissing the head. He stops to wet his fingers and Spain huffs. "What? I was just about to come!"
"Without warning me?" France arches an eyebrow and puts his hand between the other country's legs, touching his entrance and gradually working in a slick finger. Spain tenses and then exhales as that one finger moves in slow twists until a second one is added.
"No more than what you deserve for ruining my present." He grumbles faintly, rising on his elbows. White teeth dig into his lower lip as France preps him and can't resist grabbing Spain's chin and drawing him close for their first true kiss. Those sharp teeth dig into his bottom lip before Spain's mouth opens for him, sweet and warm.
They kiss like they could do that for hours, tongue sliding across tongue, lips sucked on and bit at and murmured against with slow, slow sensuality-- in vivid contrast with the way France's fingers twist and thrust into him and Spain's thighs flex with rising tension, knees pressing against France's sides, trying to urge him closer.
A third finger slides in and Spain makes a whining sound at the back of his throat. The kiss breaks and France glances down to see that the corset dress meant for cupping breasts is hanging low on Spain's flat chest and he can't resist. He fondles one nipple with his free hand and sucks on the other one. Spain shakes as his mind starts to go blank and then--
And then France pulls his fingers out and Spain groans with frustration.
He abandons him to the chilly air and Spain‘s green eyes gleam with reflected candlelight, catlike and hungry. "Apurate!"
"Oui, oui. Demanding, aren't you?" France smirks and takes all the time in the world to unzip himself, knowing Spain's temper is frayed. When he wants something he doesn't have much patience. Conquistadors rarely do.
“Lay on the jacket.” He doesn’t want them to be spending the rest of the night picking splinters out of Spain’s back. Spain smiles with something that seems like triumph or relief and spreads the jacket behind him.
“You came prepared.” He remarks with laughter under his voice as France slicks himself up with lube, container discarded to the side.
“So did you.” The blond returned with the same tone, stroking the tract of skin from garter to hip, all bare for him. Then he hooks that leg over his elbow and slides himself home with a hiss that Spain matches, brows stressed together at the initial burn of entry.
Something soft digs into France’s neck. Spain’s hand. He’s wearing gloves, otherwise those would be nails digging into skin. France opens his eyes and smiles fondly down into the flushed face. “I love my gift.” He murmurs and draws his hips back.
Spain’s fingers press harder. France thrusts and then grinds, rolling his hips slowly. Spain is shivering and watching him underneath dark eyelashes. The air is cold enough for the pants starting to come out of his mouth to crystallize into ghostly wisps that fade as soon as they form. France laughs under his breath, the sound deep and velvety.
“Do you want me to warm you up?” He asks innocently, short thrusts slow and deliberate. Spain gives him a disgruntled stare and wraps his other leg around his hip, trying to press him in deeper.
“I want you to fuck faster!” He grumbles.
France smiles and slows down even more so that he can fondle Spain’s chest, fingers pinching at the hardened nipples and rubbing them. “I thought this was my Christmas present.”
Spain rolls his eyes and gives up pointing out the dance was the gift.
France takes pity of on both of them and changes the pace of their lovemaking, getting rougher and faster. He frees his other arm and Spain moans as the angle of the thrusts change. Now France is brushing his prostate with every withdraw and Spain holds on to him tighter, flirty red shoe barely hanging by the strap to his foot.
Soft lips brushed against his mouth and Spain’s lips smile automatically and attempt to return the kiss. France pulls back -- and then kisses him again, lightly, teasingly. Spain’s eyes open, perplexed, and France grins at him. He kisses him again, hard, pulls back, and slows down the movement of his hips when Spain tries to kiss him instead.
“That’s--not--ahh-fair!”
“I know.” France drawls, unapologetic. He pins down Spain’s wrists above his head and sets to marking his throat, feeling the vibration of choked protests. Spain could break free if he wanted to but France is moving again, causing sparks of white in his vision.
He is so close --
-- France pulls out. Spain snarls something fully sacrilegious in his native tongue, skin prickling at the source of heat being taken away.
“What are you doing--” Spain is cut off with a gasp as France kneels and lifts him up so that Spain's legs are on his shoulders and starts to rim him.
The surviving red shoe goes flying into the shadowy corners of the stage. Spain grows flustered and tries to bite back his pants and moans without success. France is licking at the patch of skin behind his ball sac, half-beard chaffing and tongue soothing.
Everything is mortifyingly amplified on stage, Spain discovers anew as he covers his mouth with his hand. The tip of France’s tongue circles his entrance and then slips inside, accompanied by a long finger. They’ve been together for so long that France knows exactly how to toy with Spain’s prostrate to make him blank out. He massages the gland with the tip of his finger and licks, wanting to drive Spain insane.
He does manage to drive Spain insane when he stops that too and Spain makes a sound that is close to a scream of frustration. France would smile but he’s starting to feel desperate himself. He pulls Spain down and from the look on Spain’s face if he doesn’t do something immediately to make the Spaniard very happy he’s going to spend New Year’s drinking food through a straw.
So he grips Spain’s neglected manhood and slips into him again, with no more games in mind. France’s strokes are as harsh as their breathing, fingers tight. He meets Spain’s eyes and leans down to kiss him and Spain wraps a mistrustful arm around his neck, meeting his mouth in a starving kiss. No more softness, the other country’s body is shaking underneath his from the strain of wanting to come.
France closes his eyes, near that point too. He’s sweating and it feels like molten rock is running through his veins.
He murmurs against Spain’s mouth. “Now.”
The next moment his hand is slicker as it keeps stroking Spain’s cock and something inside him tightens, strains -- and snaps loose. France buries his face into the other country’s neck and groans out his release, hips jerking erratically and grinding deep.
They pant for breath, Spain’s gloved fingers combing through blond strands and stroking his neck while France's heart begins to stop racing.
“You’re heavy.” He remarks presently and France obligingly rises onto his elbows but stays over him. He studies Spain’s drowsy, satisfied face and the marks dotting his neck and bare shoulders.
“I don’t think my gift is going to measure up to this.” He says frankly. Spain closes his eyes and shrugs faintly, tugging him down by his shirt despite his complaint of France being heavy.
“Just keep me warm and we’ll call it even.”
Author: frostberryjam
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 2,250.
Pairing: France/Spain
Warnings: Mindless smut with no redeemable qualities of any kind, crossdressing.
Summary: It’s Christmas eve and Spain has an unexpected gift for France.
Author Notes: Partial credit goes to youkofujima for this fic. We tend to do a lot of ‘scenes‘ randomly when we go off on a ’what if’ tangent. This was based off one of those scenes.
The tavern is dark save for the single candle placed on each of the dozen hardwood tables, wicks burning brightly in the chilly December air that filters through cracks in the old building.
The golden glow of the candles reveals that the tavern has only one customer this evening.
France sits at a table near the darkened stage, wearing a sharp black suit that molds itself to his body perfectly. In his pocket is a squeeze-tube of lube and draped over the chair across from him is the long jacket he had worn outside. It is Christmas Eve and Spain is keeping him in suspense about his gift.
He smokes a cigarette, thinking back on their past to pass the wait. They have been celebrating Christmas for hundreds of years but the gift-giving tradition is relatively new by their standards. Spain remains as exuberant about it as he was on their first tentative Christmas not spent on their knees on cold stone in a church. France would be satisfied with the present being the next twenty-four hours spent unproductively in a bed but he loves Spain all the more for still wanting to surprise him.
Suddenly the bottom row of the stage lights turn on. France pauses with the cigarette halfway to his mouth and watches with growing interest. He had thought that perhaps he’d be getting a Christmas Eve dinner but apparently what he’s getting is a show for music starts to pour from hidden speakers.
And France's heart does a strange thing; it stops dead and then it speeds up. He recognizes that mellow little tune that will at any moment turn into a jaunty mess of notes. He crushes the cigarette into a scarred ashtray and is already standing when a leg peeks out from behind the curtains, wearing a pretty little red high-heeled shoe.
Then Spain steps out into the light, curtains swishing shut behind him.
He wears a corset dress that is dyed burgundy and flows in a long skirt with lacy white petticoats underneath. He moves with a sinewy grace to the rhythm of the music and grips the skirts, raising them high enough to reveal that he is wearing stockings underneath.
France moves closer like a man hypnotized to the stage. It’s ridiculous, of course, the dress is meant for soft curves and not the lean lines of the male body. But Spain’s smile is bright and infused with pleasure and a little embarrassment. He even winks at France, who stands at the foot of the stage now and stares up at him.
The soft music kicks into high gear and Spain spins sharply, the skirt rising and whipping through the air.
France's mouth goes dry. Garters. Spain is wearing garters. And doing the cancan.
He performs an amateurish rond de jambe and reveals he's not wearing underwear, the way the cancan used to be done.
France decides he wants to unwrap his present now.
He puts a hand on the stage and Spain pauses in surprise. The music continues to play.
"Wait--" Spain is dense but he's not stupid and he recognizes that glint in France's eyes as he hauls himself up over the edge. He rises fluidly onto his feet, grabs him by the hips and drags Spain against his body.
"You didn't even let me finish the first minute." Spain sputters, annoyed because he's worked for weeks on learning how to do all this in high heels.
"Trust me; there is nothing you can do to make me happier than to let me touch you." France purrs, running his hands across the beautiful dress in wonder and deciding that it's going to stay on. He strokes and squeezes Spain's ass through the folds of the skirt and then grips his thighs, urging one leg up. Spain reluctantly wraps it around him and stops looking so distressed.
He still breathes, "I worked really hard on this." as France lowers him to the stage floor and follows, kneeling between his legs.
"Yes. I can tell." France sheds his jacket and undoes his wrist cuffs, admiring the tableau Spain makes on the floor. He's not wearing makeup but his eyelashes are naturally long and sooty. He doesn’t need any.
With impatience France rolls up his sleeves and then pushes the skirt high enough to reveal the garters. He palms the texture of the stockings and then digs his nails in, tearing long lines. Spain makes a sound of confusion before France bends down and begins kissing his way up the long legs, pausing to suck through the stockings hard enough to leave marks.
"Couldn't you wait?" Spain asks still, laughing nervously and cock hardening. He tries to close his legs, shaking. The air is cold but he feels hot.
France lifts his head and places his hands on Spain's knees. "Amour, you can moan or you can shut up. Complaining is not an option, comprenez-vous?" He gives Spain a quick peck on the mouth before spreading his legs open. With some maneuvering he plants his mouth on Spain's inner thigh and drags his teeth across the garter, biting with intent to mark.
Spain's mouth is open but nothing comes out but a deep moan. France pushes the dress over his hips and nuzzles his balls, tongue massaging the sac tenderly. The heels of the pretty red shoes bite into his sides as Spain puts his hand over his mouth to stifle a moan. The sounds they're making are suddenly vibrating in the air as the music ends, plunging the room into silence.
The candles continue to glow in the dark audience, wax dripping down in steady rivulets.
France digs the tube out of his pocket and flips the top open with his thumb as he slowly jacks Spain off, occasionally kissing the head. He stops to wet his fingers and Spain huffs. "What? I was just about to come!"
"Without warning me?" France arches an eyebrow and puts his hand between the other country's legs, touching his entrance and gradually working in a slick finger. Spain tenses and then exhales as that one finger moves in slow twists until a second one is added.
"No more than what you deserve for ruining my present." He grumbles faintly, rising on his elbows. White teeth dig into his lower lip as France preps him and can't resist grabbing Spain's chin and drawing him close for their first true kiss. Those sharp teeth dig into his bottom lip before Spain's mouth opens for him, sweet and warm.
They kiss like they could do that for hours, tongue sliding across tongue, lips sucked on and bit at and murmured against with slow, slow sensuality-- in vivid contrast with the way France's fingers twist and thrust into him and Spain's thighs flex with rising tension, knees pressing against France's sides, trying to urge him closer.
A third finger slides in and Spain makes a whining sound at the back of his throat. The kiss breaks and France glances down to see that the corset dress meant for cupping breasts is hanging low on Spain's flat chest and he can't resist. He fondles one nipple with his free hand and sucks on the other one. Spain shakes as his mind starts to go blank and then--
And then France pulls his fingers out and Spain groans with frustration.
He abandons him to the chilly air and Spain‘s green eyes gleam with reflected candlelight, catlike and hungry. "Apurate!"
"Oui, oui. Demanding, aren't you?" France smirks and takes all the time in the world to unzip himself, knowing Spain's temper is frayed. When he wants something he doesn't have much patience. Conquistadors rarely do.
“Lay on the jacket.” He doesn’t want them to be spending the rest of the night picking splinters out of Spain’s back. Spain smiles with something that seems like triumph or relief and spreads the jacket behind him.
“You came prepared.” He remarks with laughter under his voice as France slicks himself up with lube, container discarded to the side.
“So did you.” The blond returned with the same tone, stroking the tract of skin from garter to hip, all bare for him. Then he hooks that leg over his elbow and slides himself home with a hiss that Spain matches, brows stressed together at the initial burn of entry.
Something soft digs into France’s neck. Spain’s hand. He’s wearing gloves, otherwise those would be nails digging into skin. France opens his eyes and smiles fondly down into the flushed face. “I love my gift.” He murmurs and draws his hips back.
Spain’s fingers press harder. France thrusts and then grinds, rolling his hips slowly. Spain is shivering and watching him underneath dark eyelashes. The air is cold enough for the pants starting to come out of his mouth to crystallize into ghostly wisps that fade as soon as they form. France laughs under his breath, the sound deep and velvety.
“Do you want me to warm you up?” He asks innocently, short thrusts slow and deliberate. Spain gives him a disgruntled stare and wraps his other leg around his hip, trying to press him in deeper.
“I want you to fuck faster!” He grumbles.
France smiles and slows down even more so that he can fondle Spain’s chest, fingers pinching at the hardened nipples and rubbing them. “I thought this was my Christmas present.”
Spain rolls his eyes and gives up pointing out the dance was the gift.
France takes pity of on both of them and changes the pace of their lovemaking, getting rougher and faster. He frees his other arm and Spain moans as the angle of the thrusts change. Now France is brushing his prostate with every withdraw and Spain holds on to him tighter, flirty red shoe barely hanging by the strap to his foot.
Soft lips brushed against his mouth and Spain’s lips smile automatically and attempt to return the kiss. France pulls back -- and then kisses him again, lightly, teasingly. Spain’s eyes open, perplexed, and France grins at him. He kisses him again, hard, pulls back, and slows down the movement of his hips when Spain tries to kiss him instead.
“That’s--not--ahh-fair!”
“I know.” France drawls, unapologetic. He pins down Spain’s wrists above his head and sets to marking his throat, feeling the vibration of choked protests. Spain could break free if he wanted to but France is moving again, causing sparks of white in his vision.
He is so close --
-- France pulls out. Spain snarls something fully sacrilegious in his native tongue, skin prickling at the source of heat being taken away.
“What are you doing--” Spain is cut off with a gasp as France kneels and lifts him up so that Spain's legs are on his shoulders and starts to rim him.
The surviving red shoe goes flying into the shadowy corners of the stage. Spain grows flustered and tries to bite back his pants and moans without success. France is licking at the patch of skin behind his ball sac, half-beard chaffing and tongue soothing.
Everything is mortifyingly amplified on stage, Spain discovers anew as he covers his mouth with his hand. The tip of France’s tongue circles his entrance and then slips inside, accompanied by a long finger. They’ve been together for so long that France knows exactly how to toy with Spain’s prostrate to make him blank out. He massages the gland with the tip of his finger and licks, wanting to drive Spain insane.
He does manage to drive Spain insane when he stops that too and Spain makes a sound that is close to a scream of frustration. France would smile but he’s starting to feel desperate himself. He pulls Spain down and from the look on Spain’s face if he doesn’t do something immediately to make the Spaniard very happy he’s going to spend New Year’s drinking food through a straw.
So he grips Spain’s neglected manhood and slips into him again, with no more games in mind. France’s strokes are as harsh as their breathing, fingers tight. He meets Spain’s eyes and leans down to kiss him and Spain wraps a mistrustful arm around his neck, meeting his mouth in a starving kiss. No more softness, the other country’s body is shaking underneath his from the strain of wanting to come.
France closes his eyes, near that point too. He’s sweating and it feels like molten rock is running through his veins.
He murmurs against Spain’s mouth. “Now.”
The next moment his hand is slicker as it keeps stroking Spain’s cock and something inside him tightens, strains -- and snaps loose. France buries his face into the other country’s neck and groans out his release, hips jerking erratically and grinding deep.
They pant for breath, Spain’s gloved fingers combing through blond strands and stroking his neck while France's heart begins to stop racing.
“You’re heavy.” He remarks presently and France obligingly rises onto his elbows but stays over him. He studies Spain’s drowsy, satisfied face and the marks dotting his neck and bare shoulders.
“I don’t think my gift is going to measure up to this.” He says frankly. Spain closes his eyes and shrugs faintly, tugging him down by his shirt despite his complaint of France being heavy.
“Just keep me warm and we’ll call it even.”