Re: France/Russia; breathplay (2)
anonymous
June 11 2009, 02:14:28 UTC
"Then why," he tries again, shutting his eyes and willing himself not to respond to this, not here in the open where people can see, "...why would you talk about--"
"You poor thing." France does not sound very sympathetic. "I am a generous host, but not by any means a selfless one." Russia feels two much smaller hands tugging his own away from their death-grip on the seat, up past his sides and in front of him until France coaxes them to close again over something much softer which, when he opens his eyes, turn out to be the loosened ends of France's cravat. France's expression is incalculable. "And I understand perfectly incompatible sensation," he hums.
Russia stares at the white cloth twined around and between his fingers. He swallows, hard, and says, "You are sure?" because Russia is anything but this at present. A thought occurs and he looks up at France's arch and daunting smile. "Would this be considered an act of war, do you think?" he wonders, frowning at the political implications of it.
France's laugh still makes him music. Russia must learn this someday. "I think this is an act of little consequence, in that sense," he murmurs, draping his own arms around Russia's shoulders and the back of the chair. His hips move again in a manner which is not quite so languid. "But not one of little importance. I've grown very fond of you of late, Russia." Russia tries to answer this or perhaps to raise another concern, but does not have the time to as France nudges Russia's hands to the sides for the beginnings of gentle pressure and descends on him for a deep, deep kiss.
It's--nice, if less civil than what he would expect such good friends to do to one another. There are teeth tugging at his bottom lip but not breaking the skin. Russia is unaccustomed to this sort of biting, unsure how exactly to respond. Then another tongue darts across his own and there is taste to consider: new and unplaceable as always but not entirely unpleasant. Russia's hands twist reflexively, pulling soft fabric with them until the heels of his fists rest lightly at the edges of France's lapel. Their breath is just beginning to quicken when Russia registers the odd pitch France's is acquiring, too high and airy by far to sound comfortable to his ear. Russia pulls away and finds that France is not the only one gasping. "I do not find death romantic," he protests. France stares, then draws a deep breath and shakes his head with limited mobility, looking profoundly amused.
"How fortunate, then, that my intention is not to let you kill me. A little harder now, if you please." And after a few more encouraging movements on France's part Russia obliges, though he is technically the guest.
The door to France's quarters stands wide open behind them; Russia senses the empty space at his back with agonizing clarity and wonders if they oughtn't to leave and go in there, away from all this exposure. The sun, so warm and pleasant only a little while before, seems suddenly more sinister for what it is illuminating here on the terrace. Breeze blows across his arms and the nape of his neck as easily as the gazes of any of the passersby below could with nothing to stop them. He feels vulnerable and in danger and dangerous here, and these are not things which Russia especially likes to feel about himself. Even if their clothes are all still on and France's noises are becoming a bit less frightening to him now.
Russia's feet scrabble briefly for purchase (how odd that he should be the one struggling!) but succeed only in pushing him and France and the chair a few centimeters away from the table with a distracting scrape. The motion jerks their mouths apart and his hands down, and Russia is quite sure he feels something give under his grip. "If. If I should tear your cravat?" he slurs, somewhere around France's chin. France sighs huskily and tilts Russia's chin in his hand (the same new-old argument, why do you look away, Russia? How much you miss when you look away!), then winks.
Re: France/Russia; breathplay (3)
anonymous
June 11 2009, 02:16:34 UTC
Groaning, Russia cheats a little and breaks eye contact to nuzzle at France's hair instead. Soft, sweet, safe. "And if I should--"
Fingernails scrape along his shoulders, his collar, the seldom-touched skin behind and below his ears. He had almost forgotten about some of the scars there before France started digging into them. Russia hisses, France moans. Somebody whimpers, but he thinks he might rather not know who.
It occurs to him as he readjusts his grip that France has a most unfair advantage here, for his arms are free. Russia's hands, entangled, are too occupied with resistance and pressure to do the things they want to, things France is so very good at himself. He can't hold like this, can't soothe or stroke or embrace. France can and does with alarming finesse, making Russia's nerves sing just long enough for him to miss the tune when the hands wander elsewhere. It is all he can do to arch forward or, he discovers, pull down to keep that contact steady and firmly on him. Russia's hips can respond to France's rhythm but not quite match it; can't mirror perfectly the same easy rolling torture. France is the rhythm. France is every part of himself moving twice as fluidly on half a breath. Russia is all mouth, all aimless, shifting legs and the spreading warmth beneath his stomach.
Something--what? Eyes. Russia still has his eyes, too. He looks up at precisely the same moment as France throws his head back and finds himself wishing he had been using them since the very beginning. Oh. Oh. Russia does not think he likes to know that he is causing pain, but he very much likes the way that France's cravat is cutting into his throat right now. How strange, how frightening, how white it looks against his skin. There are going to be marks there later, maybe darker, deeper ones than the mean little red scratches he has already caused, but France does not look very upset about this. Russia is fascinated by the underside of France's chin, by the weak, pale juncture of jaw and neck: he surges forward to kiss it and feels a low rumbling there at the noise France makes, nothing at all like an angry dog. Hands clamp down on his shoulders a fraction less gracefully and dig in sharply. This note Russia recognizes.
France's breath hitches when he comes. Russia's does the same but he does not follow.
Almost as soon as he feels France slacken Russia hastens to unwind the cloth from his hands and free them both, but before he can withdraw completely France seizes one of his hands and breathlessly kisses the back of it, then the knuckles, then gently presses it palm-first to the side of his neck. Russia's fingertips twitch uneasily before feeling something new that causes his eyes to widen. France sucks in air between parted lips, cooly watching while his breathing slows and Russia follows the mad thrumming of his pulse, fascinated. Ba-dum, ba-dum, not steady but powerful; exhilarating. Russia tries to count heartbeats until he is interrupted. "You see?" An airy chuckle, soft pats against Russia's cheek. "Only a little death."
--And Russia understands. Russia likes understanding.
Re: France/Russia; breathplay (4- end)
anonymous
June 11 2009, 02:19:03 UTC
He is less fond, however, of this unfulfilled ache becoming a burn inside him. Russia writhes under France's cruelly shifting weight, but clamps much sharper teeth down on his own lip and silently screams at himself not to let this end on the terrace. Maybe it was alright for France, but Russia does not delight in this exposure. Russia has faced exposure before. It is too much, too dangerous here, and he battles two sets of instincts. Finally he lurches forward and throws his arms around France's narrower shoulders, clutches at the back of his shirt with a low keening sound, too quiet by far to overhear four stories down. Russia breathes, grasps, wants. "France, please..." He pulls his head away from France's collar long enough to jerk it once towards the door, then buries it again and grits his teeth, squeezes harder. "Inside."
The lightest tap at his hands on France's back is enough to make Russia release the bunched cloth in his fists as though burned. France stands and Russia melts against the chair back in the sudden absence of his weight. "What a strange creature you are!" he laughs. But he helps tug Russia up out of his seat with a mellow smile, looking none the worse for wear after his own fit of endangering exhibition. "Come, then, we've much to attend to and there is another half of a city I must acquaint you with before this evening." And he takes Russia's arm in his own (the chair catches briefly on Russia's ankle when he moves, scrapes another few centimeters) and helps steer him inside to the bed where they can be mercifully shielded from prying eyes and a thousand other imagined or maybe not-so-imagined perils.
Russia permits him to leave the door standing open, however. It is nice to let a little light in.
***
...In other news, I've just realized how my comment posting strategy will annoyingly take up extra space on this page. Sorry, guys.
This... Wow... I remember there was a Russia/France on breathplay too so seeing the same theme in reverse was like... WHOA~ The sense of being at the brink and playing with "death" itself... Oh France! You wrote both France and Russia well. Love how you describe it!
And heck, France "topping" Russia... Gawd~ This was done well! Glad to see that it isn't another crazy!Russia fic... ^^
No need at all to apologize for the pairing choice, author anon! Especially not when the fill is as wonderfully provocative as this is. OP admits to not reading much France, but the way you've written him here makes me think I'm missing out. And your Russia--I adore your Russia. This is so much better than anything I was imagining. Thank you!
Re: France/Russia; breathplay (4- end)
anonymous
June 13 2009, 22:51:48 UTC
I was just thinking the other day how this world needs more France/Russia and here you are with this.
This was really wonderful - the amicable setting, the little hesitance, Russia's and France's characterisations, and most importantly of all, France/Russia IN THAT ORDER. Good grief, have you been inside my head, anon? :D
I'll just love to draw a fanart of this fic as gratitude, but I'm not terribly familiar with breathplays and tyings of cravats, while clearly these are the two important factors of this fic. Oh, what to do...
Re: France/Russia; breathplay (4- end)
anonymous
June 17 2009, 01:34:37 UTC
I admit I don't read this pairing, but I'm glad I read this. It's rare I read something that depicts Russia so perfectly. Well done, anon. Well done, anon. Well done.
"You poor thing." France does not sound very sympathetic. "I am a generous host, but not by any means a selfless one." Russia feels two much smaller hands tugging his own away from their death-grip on the seat, up past his sides and in front of him until France coaxes them to close again over something much softer which, when he opens his eyes, turn out to be the loosened ends of France's cravat. France's expression is incalculable. "And I understand perfectly incompatible sensation," he hums.
Russia stares at the white cloth twined around and between his fingers. He swallows, hard, and says, "You are sure?" because Russia is anything but this at present. A thought occurs and he looks up at France's arch and daunting smile. "Would this be considered an act of war, do you think?" he wonders, frowning at the political implications of it.
France's laugh still makes him music. Russia must learn this someday. "I think this is an act of little consequence, in that sense," he murmurs, draping his own arms around Russia's shoulders and the back of the chair. His hips move again in a manner which is not quite so languid. "But not one of little importance. I've grown very fond of you of late, Russia." Russia tries to answer this or perhaps to raise another concern, but does not have the time to as France nudges Russia's hands to the sides for the beginnings of gentle pressure and descends on him for a deep, deep kiss.
It's--nice, if less civil than what he would expect such good friends to do to one another. There are teeth tugging at his bottom lip but not breaking the skin. Russia is unaccustomed to this sort of biting, unsure how exactly to respond. Then another tongue darts across his own and there is taste to consider: new and unplaceable as always but not entirely unpleasant. Russia's hands twist reflexively, pulling soft fabric with them until the heels of his fists rest lightly at the edges of France's lapel. Their breath is just beginning to quicken when Russia registers the odd pitch France's is acquiring, too high and airy by far to sound comfortable to his ear. Russia pulls away and finds that France is not the only one gasping. "I do not find death romantic," he protests. France stares, then draws a deep breath and shakes his head with limited mobility, looking profoundly amused.
"How fortunate, then, that my intention is not to let you kill me. A little harder now, if you please." And after a few more encouraging movements on France's part Russia obliges, though he is technically the guest.
The door to France's quarters stands wide open behind them; Russia senses the empty space at his back with agonizing clarity and wonders if they oughtn't to leave and go in there, away from all this exposure. The sun, so warm and pleasant only a little while before, seems suddenly more sinister for what it is illuminating here on the terrace. Breeze blows across his arms and the nape of his neck as easily as the gazes of any of the passersby below could with nothing to stop them. He feels vulnerable and in danger and dangerous here, and these are not things which Russia especially likes to feel about himself. Even if their clothes are all still on and France's noises are becoming a bit less frightening to him now.
Russia's feet scrabble briefly for purchase (how odd that he should be the one struggling!) but succeed only in pushing him and France and the chair a few centimeters away from the table with a distracting scrape. The motion jerks their mouths apart and his hands down, and Russia is quite sure he feels something give under his grip. "If. If I should tear your cravat?" he slurs, somewhere around France's chin. France sighs huskily and tilts Russia's chin in his hand (the same new-old argument, why do you look away, Russia? How much you miss when you look away!), then winks.
"Then you still have your hands, no?"
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Fingernails scrape along his shoulders, his collar, the seldom-touched skin behind and below his ears. He had almost forgotten about some of the scars there before France started digging into them. Russia hisses, France moans. Somebody whimpers, but he thinks he might rather not know who.
It occurs to him as he readjusts his grip that France has a most unfair advantage here, for his arms are free. Russia's hands, entangled, are too occupied with resistance and pressure to do the things they want to, things France is so very good at himself. He can't hold like this, can't soothe or stroke or embrace. France can and does with alarming finesse, making Russia's nerves sing just long enough for him to miss the tune when the hands wander elsewhere. It is all he can do to arch forward or, he discovers, pull down to keep that contact steady and firmly on him. Russia's hips can respond to France's rhythm but not quite match it; can't mirror perfectly the same easy rolling torture. France is the rhythm. France is every part of himself moving twice as fluidly on half a breath. Russia is all mouth, all aimless, shifting legs and the spreading warmth beneath his stomach.
Something--what? Eyes. Russia still has his eyes, too. He looks up at precisely the same moment as France throws his head back and finds himself wishing he had been using them since the very beginning. Oh. Oh. Russia does not think he likes to know that he is causing pain, but he very much likes the way that France's cravat is cutting into his throat right now. How strange, how frightening, how white it looks against his skin. There are going to be marks there later, maybe darker, deeper ones than the mean little red scratches he has already caused, but France does not look very upset about this. Russia is fascinated by the underside of France's chin, by the weak, pale juncture of jaw and neck: he surges forward to kiss it and feels a low rumbling there at the noise France makes, nothing at all like an angry dog. Hands clamp down on his shoulders a fraction less gracefully and dig in sharply. This note Russia recognizes.
France's breath hitches when he comes. Russia's does the same but he does not follow.
Almost as soon as he feels France slacken Russia hastens to unwind the cloth from his hands and free them both, but before he can withdraw completely France seizes one of his hands and breathlessly kisses the back of it, then the knuckles, then gently presses it palm-first to the side of his neck. Russia's fingertips twitch uneasily before feeling something new that causes his eyes to widen. France sucks in air between parted lips, cooly watching while his breathing slows and Russia follows the mad thrumming of his pulse, fascinated. Ba-dum, ba-dum, not steady but powerful; exhilarating. Russia tries to count heartbeats until he is interrupted. "You see?" An airy chuckle, soft pats against Russia's cheek. "Only a little death."
--And Russia understands. Russia likes understanding.
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The lightest tap at his hands on France's back is enough to make Russia release the bunched cloth in his fists as though burned. France stands and Russia melts against the chair back in the sudden absence of his weight. "What a strange creature you are!" he laughs. But he helps tug Russia up out of his seat with a mellow smile, looking none the worse for wear after his own fit of endangering exhibition. "Come, then, we've much to attend to and there is another half of a city I must acquaint you with before this evening." And he takes Russia's arm in his own (the chair catches briefly on Russia's ankle when he moves, scrapes another few centimeters) and helps steer him inside to the bed where they can be mercifully shielded from prying eyes and a thousand other imagined or maybe not-so-imagined perils.
Russia permits him to leave the door standing open, however. It is nice to let a little light in.
***
...In other news, I've just realized how my comment posting strategy will annoyingly take up extra space on this page. Sorry, guys.
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ACE
HELHAKWJELJ /fangirls
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And heck, France "topping" Russia... Gawd~ This was done well! Glad to see that it isn't another crazy!Russia fic... ^^
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I was just thinking the other day how this world needs more France/Russia and here you are with this.
This was really wonderful - the amicable setting, the little hesitance, Russia's and France's characterisations, and most importantly of all, France/Russia IN THAT ORDER. Good grief, have you been inside my head, anon? :D
I'll just love to draw a fanart of this fic as gratitude, but I'm not terribly familiar with breathplays and tyings of cravats, while clearly these are the two important factors of this fic. Oh, what to do...
tl;dr: I love you <3
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