France/England, whipping, 1/2
anonymous
April 5 2009, 15:43:42 UTC
It’s been awhile since the last time England showed up at his door with a bottle in one hand and a leather cat in the other. It’s not something France gets off on, particularly (he has better ways of making people scream), but this is something England needs, and he needs it from France.
It’s less that England trusts him (though he does, far more than he admits) than that he honestly does not care what France thinks of him, or his needs.
So France steps back and allows England to brush past him through the doorway. England hands him the cat and heads for the kitchen, stripping his shirt off as he goes. Under normal circumstances, France wouldn’t let England in his kitchen under threat of torture, but it’s the easiest room to clean if England bleeds. England’s pants follow his shirt after he kicks his shoes off, and he braces his hands against the light, blue-and-white wallpaper in only his boxers and football socks.
France hefts the handle of the cat, getting a feel for the well-crafted grip, letting the strips slither like water over his other hand. France gives it an experimental swing and snap, slapping it back over his own shoulder to get a sense of its bite.
Ooh.
All right then.
He steps into England’s space, close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin. He trails the tails over the gleaming white and pink wheals of old scars that decorate England’s back, from his pirate days, from his navy days, from other nights like this.
“How badly do you want it?” France asks softly, ruffling England’s hair with his breath.
“Don’t tease me, you fucking frog,” England growls, which - was not what he meant at all.
“It was an honest question,” he murmurs, and he’s proud of how affronted he doesn’t sound.
“I want my skin hanging off me strips you useless pansy, but if you can’t handle that I’ll find someone who -”
CRACK
All the muscles in England’s back jump intension as bright red lines cut across the paler grid already there.
“Tais-toi,” he orders casually, not even doing him the courtesy of telling him to shut up in his own language. The cat whistles though the air again, its many fingers painting pretty streaks of scarlet over England’s skin. The cat has no metal tips to slice his skin quickly; it will take a long time for his welts to open. France can be patient.
France/England, whipping, 2/2
anonymous
April 5 2009, 15:48:27 UTC
He works himself into a smooth rhythm, bringing the flaring strips of the whip slapping down on England’s back over and over, relishing the steady ache in his arm as he makes the strokes harder, then harder still. When the first drops of blood start oozing from the abused flesh and stain the dark leather, England stops his silent panting and whimpers, a helpless, tiny, drowning-kitten sound, and France tightens his grip on the cat and forces himself to keep a steady pace. His pants are uncomfortably tight, so much so that he can feel the seam of his fly against the sensitized skin of his prick. He shifts his hips and earns a little friction for his trouble. He rachets up the beating, flaying England as if the whip could tear through him and lay sweet whip marks on the wall.
England groans, deep anguish and appreciation all muddled together, arching up on the balls of his feet to get minutely closer to the strikes, his whole body begging for more. France lets the cat slip a little, lap and curl cruelly over his shoulders, lashing the bare, vulnerable territory of his neck. Then it wanders down, stinging the ripe, exposed skin on the backs of his thighs, between them.
England spreads his legs a little father. France licks his inner thighs with the whip and grinds the heel of his left hand into his groin, relief and denial in the same desperate motion. He crisscrosses England’s back with raw weals, flogging him in earnest, throwing his whole body into the force of the motion until England’s back is a wet, bloody mess of ragged edges and England is screaming in short, wordless barks and humping the wall, mindless, totally in his body and of it and nothing else. France strikes high again, this time letting the vicious strips cur around on side of England’s face, tracking his blood there.
“Hands and knees,” France orders, hoarsely, and then England just is, and the blood is dripping down his sides instead of soaking into his underwear and decorating the cold tile floor.
France tears the front of his pants open and strokes with his left hand because he can’t put the cat down, can’t stop laying into England when he shudders and moans into every hit, he jerks himself fast, in an off-tempo counterpoint to the whipping, and then France is gasping and quaking and coming in messy white streaks all over England’s fresh open cuts, and it’s not his kink, it’s really not, but way England screeches and seizes and shoots in his ruined boxes just for the sting of France’s jizz in his fresh gashes is the hottest fucking thing France has ever seen.
France stumbles and catches himself on his marble countertop (perfect for pastry), holding on until the wooziness of his overpowering climax lifts. England lies collapses on the floor, debauched and abused and filthy with both of their fluids. France pulls a washcloth out of its drawer and wets it with warm water in the sink, then kneels down beside England and starts gingerly sponging his wounds clean.
He winces, then grins.
“Alright?” France asks.
“Brilliant,” England answers, too well-thrashed and high on endorphins to come up with even a token insult. France snorts.
“Rum, sodomy and the lash, indeed,” he mutters, carefully washing one particularly deep cut.
“Three great tastes that taste great together,” England agrees, loopily. France laughs.
“I’ll make you taste them yet, you masochistic cad,” he threatens. England only smiles at him, and when France bends down to steal a kiss, he doesn’t even bite.
Well, maybe a little.
But only because they like it that way.
*
Apparently, whenever I write hardcore pain within my OTP, I then feel the need to tie it off with WAFFy, OTP-affirming fluff. I'm so sorry. OTL
This F5'ing little anon totally appreciated the WAFFy tie-off, but holy hell. Recently discovered strapping and moving into whipping territory in terms of kinks, but, yesss. Been eyeing this prompt for ages, and this is one hell of a fill, writernon. |D And it's delightfully IC, too. Thanks for a great start to the morning, mmmmmhm.
Re: France/England, whipping, 2/2
anonymous
April 6 2009, 00:29:41 UTC
That was very good. I liked the nonsense approach England takes at the beginning and the suggestion they do this all the time is kind of delicious. The ending is cute in a wonderfully dark kind of way.
Re: France/England, whipping, 2/2
anonymous
April 9 2009, 01:35:05 UTC
I...I really enjoyed this. Lovely use of alliteration and the off-side imagery really adds depth to the story (eg- 'marble counter top (perfect for pastry)')
And I actually think the ending was a good twist of believability. They can do this crazy shit because they like and trust each other. It's not hatesex. So- yeah. Really good work. :)
It’s less that England trusts him (though he does, far more than he admits) than that he honestly does not care what France thinks of him, or his needs.
So France steps back and allows England to brush past him through the doorway. England hands him the cat and heads for the kitchen, stripping his shirt off as he goes. Under normal circumstances, France wouldn’t let England in his kitchen under threat of torture, but it’s the easiest room to clean if England bleeds. England’s pants follow his shirt after he kicks his shoes off, and he braces his hands against the light, blue-and-white wallpaper in only his boxers and football socks.
France hefts the handle of the cat, getting a feel for the well-crafted grip, letting the strips slither like water over his other hand. France gives it an experimental swing and snap, slapping it back over his own shoulder to get a sense of its bite.
Ooh.
All right then.
He steps into England’s space, close enough to feel the heat coming off his skin. He trails the tails over the gleaming white and pink wheals of old scars that decorate England’s back, from his pirate days, from his navy days, from other nights like this.
“How badly do you want it?” France asks softly, ruffling England’s hair with his breath.
“Don’t tease me, you fucking frog,” England growls, which - was not what he meant at all.
“It was an honest question,” he murmurs, and he’s proud of how affronted he doesn’t sound.
“I want my skin hanging off me strips you useless pansy, but if you can’t handle that I’ll find someone who -”
CRACK
All the muscles in England’s back jump intension as bright red lines cut across the paler grid already there.
“Tais-toi,” he orders casually, not even doing him the courtesy of telling him to shut up in his own language. The cat whistles though the air again, its many fingers painting pretty streaks of scarlet over England’s skin. The cat has no metal tips to slice his skin quickly; it will take a long time for his welts to open. France can be patient.
Reply
England groans, deep anguish and appreciation all muddled together, arching up on the balls of his feet to get minutely closer to the strikes, his whole body begging for more. France lets the cat slip a little, lap and curl cruelly over his shoulders, lashing the bare, vulnerable territory of his neck. Then it wanders down, stinging the ripe, exposed skin on the backs of his thighs, between them.
England spreads his legs a little father. France licks his inner thighs with the whip and grinds the heel of his left hand into his groin, relief and denial in the same desperate motion. He crisscrosses England’s back with raw weals, flogging him in earnest, throwing his whole body into the force of the motion until England’s back is a wet, bloody mess of ragged edges and England is screaming in short, wordless barks and humping the wall, mindless, totally in his body and of it and nothing else. France strikes high again, this time letting the vicious strips cur around on side of England’s face, tracking his blood there.
“Hands and knees,” France orders, hoarsely, and then England just is, and the blood is dripping down his sides instead of soaking into his underwear and decorating the cold tile floor.
France tears the front of his pants open and strokes with his left hand because he can’t put the cat down, can’t stop laying into England when he shudders and moans into every hit, he jerks himself fast, in an off-tempo counterpoint to the whipping, and then France is gasping and quaking and coming in messy white streaks all over England’s fresh open cuts, and it’s not his kink, it’s really not, but way England screeches and seizes and shoots in his ruined boxes just for the sting of France’s jizz in his fresh gashes is the hottest fucking thing France has ever seen.
France stumbles and catches himself on his marble countertop (perfect for pastry), holding on until the wooziness of his overpowering climax lifts. England lies collapses on the floor, debauched and abused and filthy with both of their fluids. France pulls a washcloth out of its drawer and wets it with warm water in the sink, then kneels down beside England and starts gingerly sponging his wounds clean.
He winces, then grins.
“Alright?” France asks.
“Brilliant,” England answers, too well-thrashed and high on endorphins to come up with even a token insult. France snorts.
“Rum, sodomy and the lash, indeed,” he mutters, carefully washing one particularly deep cut.
“Three great tastes that taste great together,” England agrees, loopily. France laughs.
“I’ll make you taste them yet, you masochistic cad,” he threatens. England only smiles at him, and when France bends down to steal a kiss, he doesn’t even bite.
Well, maybe a little.
But only because they like it that way.
*
Apparently, whenever I write hardcore pain within my OTP, I then feel the need to tie it off with WAFFy, OTP-affirming fluff. I'm so sorry. OTL
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Reply
Oh England... Oh France...
Reply
Anon totally approves of this Arthur beating
Reply
And I actually think the ending was a good twist of believability. They can do this crazy shit because they like and trust each other. It's not hatesex. So- yeah. Really good work. :)
Reply
Leave a comment