Fic: Des Vignettes [8/9]
Title: Des Vignettes
Rating: R for this chapter and for the whole fic
Characters & Pairings: England/France, America; mentions of Japan, Russia and Spain.
Warnings: In this chapter, language and sex. In the whole fic, language, sex, and some blood.
Notes: De-anon from the kink meme; originally written for this prompt. Cleaned up and slightly altered since the original version.
Summary: 1904, 2004, and a few moments in between. In which France and England talk, fight, kiss and confound their way towards some form of progress.
-
|<- Back to chapter 1
<- Back to chapter 7
Year Eighty-seven
France is not entirely certain, but he thinks that there may be a telephone ringing somewhere in the house. Sounds are muffled, by the blankets pulled up over his head and by the amplification of his own heartbeat, and consist almost solely of their breathing and quiet noises, but there seems to be a ringing coming from somewhere. Then again, it could just be the blood thrumming in his ears.
It does not seem to bother England in any case, whose brilliant eyes are languid and almost closed and whose skin is glowing a tender golden colour in the light that filters through the sheets. He is watching France watching him, lying naked on his side in the hideaway of their bed, with an aura of relaxation and lazy contentment about him that is so rare France would like to bottle it and keep it in his dresser. Never the cat that got the cream, England is the mountain lion that has foregone the hunt: stretched out in warmth and sunlight, claws sheathed, content to be held by the world around him. His head resting on his folded arm and his hand moving slowly between France’s legs, he licks a tiny smirk onto his lips and exhales softly into the space within the blankets.
France hums a little in the back of his throat, arches his spine in a long whispering shift against the sheets below him. “Weren’t we going to get up?”
“We were,” England agrees, tangles his free hand in France’s hair and brings their bodies closer.
“It is a wonderful day,” says France, winding one leg around England’s pale narrow thigh.
England rubs his thumb in small circles, making France’s breath flicker in the back of his throat. “Uh-huh,” he murmurs, tipping his eyes briefly downwards with a spark of playfulness.
The ringing has stopped, and so France decides to ignore it entirely. He moves his lips closer, blows against the side of England’s earlobe. “Perhaps we ought to be taking advantage of it.”
“Hnn,” England groans before he can stop himself; then, “well then, after you.”
France’s mouth has found an old dying bruise in the crook of England’s neck, pale and faint. He slots his lips over it once more and sucks the life back into it, sucks until England is pivoting his body against him and breathing harshly, pressed firm and insistent to his hip.
“Unnecessary cruelty,” he says huskily, kisses France hard on the lips and then speaks directly into his mouth; “remember where I come from? This could be my only chance in months to see sunlight.”
France leans across the few millimetres between them to re-seal the kiss, coaxes against England’s lips and tongue and the taste of the Ceylon he brewed semi-blind and naked that morning, and England moves forwards to meet him with a whisper and a slow gradual winding of his fingers against France’s chest. France slips a hand down, into the confusion of cotton and skin, and for some time everything is soft sheets and heavy breaths and hands touching, touching, touching like they were made for nothing else. Their legs get tangled, England makes a stifled sound of surprise - thrill - God do that again, France presses them firm together and together they work each other with slow, lazy fingers.
But: “Unnecessary?” France says, because allowing statements to go uncounted is rarely preferable to firing back a rebuttal, even in situations like this, “I think not. Or do you expect your - mmm - your own cruelty in keeping me trapped here to go unpunished?”
England’s eyes gleam and he does something with his hand - indecipherable; the world is all in a haze of sensation and clutching at the mattress - but it is very new and incredible and makes France’s toes curl gloriously.
“You’re welcome to get up at any time,” England says, irredeemably smug, even as France is breathing forcibly slow and trying to hear above the buzzing all throughout his head.
“You see,” he pants, ragged, “cruelty,” and he hauls England’s leg up over his hip and rolls them over, until the sheets are wrapping them up together in a great warm parcel of movement and feel, and England’s thighs are on either side of his body, holding him close.
England makes a point of frowning just a little, even as he pushes his hips up and back and forwards, so that France gasps and mouths at his neck, again and again, temporarily overcome.
“Yes,” England says, and perhaps he says it with rather less sarcasm and rather more desire than is usual but who is really counting anymore, “you do seem to be suffering terribly.”
France gathers himself a little, does something with his fingernail that never fails to make England twist and arch, his face flushing beautifully against his bright matted hair and the white rumpled sheets. He lowers his face to the corner of England’s jaw and sucks at it, just hard enough to make him groan and bite down on France’s name.
“I am suffering from my restraints,” France murmurs quietly, holding back and teasing while England has his arms locked around his neck and his face pressed into his hair, digging his feet into the bed and pushing demandingly upwards, “about as badly as you are from not seeing the sunlight.”
“The sun is in you,” England responds at once, looking directly at him with fogged, barely-open eyes.
Almost immediately, as soon as he sees France’s reaction, he hastens to qualify - “That is, it’s shining through the sheets, and it’s on your hair and on your skin and oh God,” he groans, covering his face with his hand as France grins at him, “stop that you horrendous bastard, you know what I meant.”
“I most certainly do,” says France, still beaming as England’s words bounce around inside his ribs like a vast swelling balloon - but he touches England’s jaw, kisses his forehead, tries to bring him back with touches and reassurance.
England still has his hand over his eyes and gives a quiet, frustrated moan - then moans again, in relief and so much else, as France begins to touch them both once more. “Shut up,” he mutters, “you’re insufferable, go away, oh fuck, oh God just like that.”
And perhaps, just perhaps, when England swings France over onto his back and swings himself over onto him, when he holds them together in his hand, with the sheets draped over his shoulders and his face shifting and the muscles of his thighs working exquisitely in the yellow light, France can see what he meant about the sun.
-
Ceylon is a strong black tea, one of the most popular types in Britain.
It's been over 2 weeks this time. Stupid college. Stupid job. D:
On to chapter 9 ->|
Rating: R for this chapter and for the whole fic
Characters & Pairings: England/France, America; mentions of Japan, Russia and Spain.
Warnings: In this chapter, language and sex. In the whole fic, language, sex, and some blood.
Notes: De-anon from the kink meme; originally written for this prompt. Cleaned up and slightly altered since the original version.
Summary: 1904, 2004, and a few moments in between. In which France and England talk, fight, kiss and confound their way towards some form of progress.
-
|<- Back to chapter 1
<- Back to chapter 7
Year Eighty-seven
France is not entirely certain, but he thinks that there may be a telephone ringing somewhere in the house. Sounds are muffled, by the blankets pulled up over his head and by the amplification of his own heartbeat, and consist almost solely of their breathing and quiet noises, but there seems to be a ringing coming from somewhere. Then again, it could just be the blood thrumming in his ears.
It does not seem to bother England in any case, whose brilliant eyes are languid and almost closed and whose skin is glowing a tender golden colour in the light that filters through the sheets. He is watching France watching him, lying naked on his side in the hideaway of their bed, with an aura of relaxation and lazy contentment about him that is so rare France would like to bottle it and keep it in his dresser. Never the cat that got the cream, England is the mountain lion that has foregone the hunt: stretched out in warmth and sunlight, claws sheathed, content to be held by the world around him. His head resting on his folded arm and his hand moving slowly between France’s legs, he licks a tiny smirk onto his lips and exhales softly into the space within the blankets.
France hums a little in the back of his throat, arches his spine in a long whispering shift against the sheets below him. “Weren’t we going to get up?”
“We were,” England agrees, tangles his free hand in France’s hair and brings their bodies closer.
“It is a wonderful day,” says France, winding one leg around England’s pale narrow thigh.
England rubs his thumb in small circles, making France’s breath flicker in the back of his throat. “Uh-huh,” he murmurs, tipping his eyes briefly downwards with a spark of playfulness.
The ringing has stopped, and so France decides to ignore it entirely. He moves his lips closer, blows against the side of England’s earlobe. “Perhaps we ought to be taking advantage of it.”
“Hnn,” England groans before he can stop himself; then, “well then, after you.”
France’s mouth has found an old dying bruise in the crook of England’s neck, pale and faint. He slots his lips over it once more and sucks the life back into it, sucks until England is pivoting his body against him and breathing harshly, pressed firm and insistent to his hip.
“Unnecessary cruelty,” he says huskily, kisses France hard on the lips and then speaks directly into his mouth; “remember where I come from? This could be my only chance in months to see sunlight.”
France leans across the few millimetres between them to re-seal the kiss, coaxes against England’s lips and tongue and the taste of the Ceylon he brewed semi-blind and naked that morning, and England moves forwards to meet him with a whisper and a slow gradual winding of his fingers against France’s chest. France slips a hand down, into the confusion of cotton and skin, and for some time everything is soft sheets and heavy breaths and hands touching, touching, touching like they were made for nothing else. Their legs get tangled, England makes a stifled sound of surprise - thrill - God do that again, France presses them firm together and together they work each other with slow, lazy fingers.
But: “Unnecessary?” France says, because allowing statements to go uncounted is rarely preferable to firing back a rebuttal, even in situations like this, “I think not. Or do you expect your - mmm - your own cruelty in keeping me trapped here to go unpunished?”
England’s eyes gleam and he does something with his hand - indecipherable; the world is all in a haze of sensation and clutching at the mattress - but it is very new and incredible and makes France’s toes curl gloriously.
“You’re welcome to get up at any time,” England says, irredeemably smug, even as France is breathing forcibly slow and trying to hear above the buzzing all throughout his head.
“You see,” he pants, ragged, “cruelty,” and he hauls England’s leg up over his hip and rolls them over, until the sheets are wrapping them up together in a great warm parcel of movement and feel, and England’s thighs are on either side of his body, holding him close.
England makes a point of frowning just a little, even as he pushes his hips up and back and forwards, so that France gasps and mouths at his neck, again and again, temporarily overcome.
“Yes,” England says, and perhaps he says it with rather less sarcasm and rather more desire than is usual but who is really counting anymore, “you do seem to be suffering terribly.”
France gathers himself a little, does something with his fingernail that never fails to make England twist and arch, his face flushing beautifully against his bright matted hair and the white rumpled sheets. He lowers his face to the corner of England’s jaw and sucks at it, just hard enough to make him groan and bite down on France’s name.
“I am suffering from my restraints,” France murmurs quietly, holding back and teasing while England has his arms locked around his neck and his face pressed into his hair, digging his feet into the bed and pushing demandingly upwards, “about as badly as you are from not seeing the sunlight.”
“The sun is in you,” England responds at once, looking directly at him with fogged, barely-open eyes.
Almost immediately, as soon as he sees France’s reaction, he hastens to qualify - “That is, it’s shining through the sheets, and it’s on your hair and on your skin and oh God,” he groans, covering his face with his hand as France grins at him, “stop that you horrendous bastard, you know what I meant.”
“I most certainly do,” says France, still beaming as England’s words bounce around inside his ribs like a vast swelling balloon - but he touches England’s jaw, kisses his forehead, tries to bring him back with touches and reassurance.
England still has his hand over his eyes and gives a quiet, frustrated moan - then moans again, in relief and so much else, as France begins to touch them both once more. “Shut up,” he mutters, “you’re insufferable, go away, oh fuck, oh God just like that.”
And perhaps, just perhaps, when England swings France over onto his back and swings himself over onto him, when he holds them together in his hand, with the sheets draped over his shoulders and his face shifting and the muscles of his thighs working exquisitely in the yellow light, France can see what he meant about the sun.
-
Ceylon is a strong black tea, one of the most popular types in Britain.
It's been over 2 weeks this time. Stupid college. Stupid job. D:
On to chapter 9 ->|