[Fanfic] - Carbonic
Title: Carbonic
Characters: Denmark/France
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Porn, smoking, salirophilia.
Notes: Only took me a year to finish this, yep.
Summary: France finds beauty in the defilement.
France looks out over Paris, sunset-burnished and sparkling, through the haze of smoke from his cigarette. He thinks the smoke completes it, really. Without the screen it isn’t proper, isn’t right - it shines as bright as his Sun King ever did, even with the sky growing dim. His city, his heart, it’s all glitter and glimmer and glow, people moving, sunset dapples on the Seine if he were to put another image to it.
The smoke, though. Perhaps distorting, but Paris was distorted once one looked, once one dug a little deeper. City grit and grime, alleyways, catacombs, rats skittering across métro rails while the wretched homeless kept warm from burning trash nearby.
The gray is appropriate.
Though to complete the image, it needs more brown.
Mud, yes. The dirty slosh of rainwater from the gutters isn’t quite muddy enough for his tastes, sometimes. France can be dirty - and a flash of recall, Germany, trenches, the lowground, Crécy, his men wallowing, choking, drowning in the mud while Allemagne and Angleterre -
Ah, Angleterre. And his Jeanne, his beloved Jeanne. As much as he blames Angleterre, a small part of him is thankful for such a fitting ending. Tragedy, surely, but a beautiful one - ashes to ashes, was it? He wonders if he’ll be ashes one day, he’d like to be; blood and bone dust falling back into the earth, seeping down, dripping into his tombs, crypts, catacombs.
He watches as the ashes of his cigarette disintegrate and fall down to the scene below, leaning against the balcony rail.
His streets could be ashes - they were, weren’t they, once, twice, many times - his cities as they burned, as blood ran down the streets, his fields trampled and torn -
He has a lot of history.
And what would you like to do, Denmark asks him then (after sex, on the rickety balcony of his Paris apartment - it is not in those words, precisely, but the meaning is the same) - interrupting his thoughts as always, and France only raises an elegant eyebrow and taps out his cigarette.
You indulge me - again, not the exact utterance - so what would you like to do? I’ve never seen you undone. That would be fun.
Ah, Denmark. Always so simple with his words, a drunken phone call of “Let’s fuck,” and a short time later France was happily attending to his needs. Or, like today, not so much a drunken phone call, simply a lazy afternoon hookup.
“So, what do ya want? I mean, shit, you never ask for anything in bed. Not sayin’ it’s not good or anything, ‘cause it is, but I’m feeling kinda guilty, y’know?”
France studies him as Denmark picks up a cigarette and lights it in the twilight. Sharp cheekbones, broad jawline, clear eyes, a wide, bright smile - it’s all so very - pristine, he thinks. Denmark watches France watching him and gives a chuckle, used to it by now. France finally replies. “Ashes and dirt.”
Denmark raises an eyebrow even as he blows smoke into the air. “Huh?”
“You’re so - clean. There is beauty in the defilement, my dear.”
Denmark, of course, snorts, and smiles, and rolls his eyes - candid, yes, he always is - tells him he needs to stop speaking in ideas as he is prone to do.
France smiles back, low, cool, toying. “Perhaps,” he begins, “it would simply be easier to show you.”
---
And so they make plans. Denmark will not wear anything he is fond of, will tell him if he goes too far, knows that afterward he will certainly be in need of a shower and will be looked at oddly by the passengers on the train home. He is perfectly okay with this - France is appreciative of Denmark’s lack of care for social graces, for once.
They meet in Paris, take a train out of the city, and end up in an abandoned - warehouse, it may have been at some point - either way it is a large, open, desolate building in the forgotten outskirts of the city, near the rail lines.
The lights, unaccustomed to use, flicker; their dim fluorescence contrasts with the natural panes of light streaming in from the windows, and France can feel the tempo of his heart rise, match their fluttering pulse.
They showcase the dust, dirt, grit in every corner. The creaky hardwood floors that lost their sheen a century ago. The cracks in the ceilings, flaky paint on the walls - France sighs as he looks around - it is nearly perfect in its imperfection. He half-wishes he could simply stand and peel the flakes of paint off the walls, but instead sets his bag down in the center of the room.
Denmark laughs a little. “On the floor?”
France smiles and nods. “I am sure you can stand a few bruises.” Denmark has a bit of masochistic streak, he knows. He can’t imagine Denmark complaining.
“Huh,” Denmark half-nods. “Well, what’s in the bag?”
France only smiles. “On the floor, darling.” Once Denmark is seated, legs akimbo and arms lazily thrown over them, France pulls out a few paints from his bag.
“Yer paintin’ me?”
“You ask so many questions, dear,” France replies as he opens a tube - blue, ah, that is not quite fitting for Denmark - he pulls out another color. Black. Yes, that will work. Denmark always did have a penchant for black - even now, sitting sprawled on the floor in his faded black jeans. Black would work splendidly.
“I thought ya said somethin’ about ash and dirt, man. Not, you know,” he waves a hand, “little tubes o’ paint.”
France simply nods. He has those things. There are more than enough cigarettes, along with a bottle of water and a decent amount of dirt, packed in those horrid disposable containers Amérique is so fond of - he pulls them out, shows them to Denmark, if only to stem the tide of his words.
The thought of smearing the dirt along Denmark’s cheekbone, in itself, is enough to make him harden somewhat. His breathing picks up, clearly audible over the buzz of warehouse lights - still quite dim, wonderful - Denmark notices and smirks.
“Gimme one of those,” Denmark gestures to the cigarettes, “if yer just gonna stand there all day.”
France licks his lips and complies, tossing Denmark both the pack and his lighter, watches Denmark carelessly light it and wonders where to begin. It has been a long while since he’s had the opportunity to indulge in this.
He sits down in front of Denmark and observes, and as usual Denmark is happy to be looked at, scrutinized. He always did like being the center of attention, no? France plays with the tube of black paint in his hand, turning the cap, tightening it again, over and over.
“C’mon, jus’ get on with it,” Denmark goads.
And so, France does. Opens the paint and sets the lid gingerly to the side, smears some on his finger, leans in. Tentatively touches some to Denmark’s face - he’s still smoking, cheeks sunken in on the inhale - and that - ah. That works nicely.
Denmark blows the smoke in his face and laughs, then stubs out the cigarette on the floor. Careless, always careless. “Since when’re you so shy, man?” Denmark kicks out a leg and nudges him with his foot.
That’s all that France needs, if he needed any encouragement at all, really, and he leans forward, straddles Denmark’s lap even as he takes hold of that strong jaw in his own hands and kisses him fiercely. The paint covering his right hand - Denmark’s left cheek - he can feel it slide between them and coat the side of Denmark’s face. His breath hitches mid-kiss, Denmark laughs a little into his mouth and grabs his waist, pulling him in closer.
Denmark breaks the kiss and laughs even more when he feels France’s erection pressed against his stomach. France sighs and half-rolls his eyes, and soon their lips meet again as he slides his fingers back and forth, back and forth across the smear over Denmark’s face. The fluidity there really highlights Denmark’s bone structure, he thinks - he pulls back and watches as his fingers press into that cheekbone, up the temple in a smear - even across the sharp jut of his brow line. The paint catches in the hairs, there - France leans forward to place a kiss on it, breathing already undone.
Strong hands grip his hips, a little too tight, but Denmark is always like that. “Patience, dear,” France breathes onto Denmark’s forehead. His breath disturbs the hair falling over it, in the way, and he pulls back even further, allowing his hips to rut into Denmark’s muscular stomach, traces his fingers over that forehead and swallows when they leave the faintest trails of paint across the clear skin.
Denmark laughs. “Sorry! Y’know I’m no good at bein’ patient.” He punctuates that by pulling France down and lifting his hips up to meet France’s - Denmark is almost fully hard and France barely keeps down a moan.
“Yes,” France whispers, and it comes out harsher than he anticipated. “I know.” He brings both hands up and cups Denmark’s jaw, one hand on either side - the disparity between one soiled hand ruining the skin there, and the other, clean and manicured over freshly-shaven skin -
He groans out loud, this time.
“Ya really like this, huh?” Denmark grins, and leans in and runs his tongue up France’s neck.
France growls and shoves Denmark to the floor with one hand while the other - the dirty one, the tainted one - it grabs the bag and ruins it too, in its fumbling. He half wants to pour the container of dirt out, all over Denmark’s face, his cocky grin, right then. Unfortunately, he knows he’ll come too soon if he goes so quickly. So he simply fumbles it open while Denmark smirks up at him - amused with his lack of grace, he can only assume - and swipes his fingers through it before bringing them up to hover over that grin.
It doesn’t waver. Wonderful.
He takes a deep breath and lowers his hand, watching as the dirt mingles with the paint already there, delightfully interrupting the smooth texture of Denmark’s face. And if he - ah, there - spreads his fingers out of the sharp planes of black paint, and now he can see how the dirt mars Denmark’s skin a bit more clearly. Hm, well, not clear, not clearly - clear isn’t right. It’s such a small change, really - but a bit of dirt has him grinding down onto Denmark’s thigh.
He clenches his other hand into Denmark’s shirt and twists - it hurts his hand, to twist so hard, but there is nothing so satisfying as the sound of the fabric ripping. Denmark grabs both of his thighs, one hand on either side, and digs his thumbs into the muscle, through the pants - France curses, barely audible, upon seeing pale skin peek through the rip in Denmark’s shirt.
That shirt is too clean.
He brings his other hand to Denmark’s shirt and runs it down - wipes it clean, in a way - watches as the stain runs from flesh to fabric instead, takes a moment to appreciate that Denmark thought to wear something light in color. Or perhaps he never gave it a thought and simply threw on the first thing he touched this morning - either way.
The fingers of his other hand tease at the rip in Denmark’s shirt, peeking in and barely brushing against soft skin and chest hair, then run back along the seam between frayed fabric and skin. France’s breath stutters. Denmark lips his lips, minutely - pink tongue poking through white teeth, and France thinks that those colors will need to change, won’t they - and Denmark ruts up against him once more, broad, strong hands bringing their bodies together, fabric against fabric, length against length, glorious.
A barely audible hiss from France is the only warning Denmark gets before their lips are smashed together once more, and this time France aims for a little bruising, perhaps blood - Denmark always did have a thing for that. France can’t say that he doesn’t see the appeal. He obliges Denmark, though only after a short-lived but heated battle between tongues, his smooth lips crudely pressing against Denmark’s slightly chapped ones, the contours of both of their bodies obvious through their clothes as they move against one another.
Only when he needs air does France pull away. As he does, he opens his eyes to meet Denmark’s, making sure that his hot breaths linger over stained skin, his chin, his lips - a small, playful kiss to the tip of Denmark’s nose is quickly followed by France’s sharp teeth sinking into Denmark’s lower lip, and staying.
Denmark’s eyes flutter and he groans, hands raking up France’s sides - France twists his jaw, slightly, tastes copper and metal tang - Denmark presses them together, so tight, so flush, it is almost painful. France swallows, pulls up, swollen lip still in his grasp, while one hand resumes stroking through the mess on Denmark’s face.
A halting breath, half-out his nose and half-into Denmark’s mouth - France can see at close range, now, the tarnished canvas of Denmark’s face. Sweat breaks out across it, especially his forehead, and is joined by a light flush. The pink looks nice with the black, yes. Like the last gasp of dusk, perhaps, in the countryside, or over a battlefield - that would be the more proper allusion, what with the smell of blood, sweat, dirt in the air.
Though the flickering yellow of the warehouse lights do add an air of the urban to this, after all -
“France,” Denmark huffs - or tries to, it is rather indecipherable with one lip trapped in the blunt cage of France’s teeth - and shifts underneath, pointedly pressing their erections together.
Ah. It would not do to forget Denmark in this - what sort of lover would that make him? Certainly not one worthy of his reputation. France pulls back and gives a gentle kiss of apology; Denmark grabs his hair, tight and fierce, and tears all of the gentleness away from the liplock.
France wants to laugh, but he doesn’t.
Instead he indulges Denmark for another minute, two, he is not quite sure, and pulls away once they are both breathing hard, shifts to his elbow and once again reaches for the paint. Straightens his arm out, but makes sure to keep their lower bodies aligned even as he adds a streak of black, straight from the tube, onto Denmark’s clothing.
Denmark grabs his ass through the trousers and continues his primal rutting - France is sure to make some sound of appreciation, as he cannot forget Denmark, and Denmark finds such things arousing - and France always aims to please. Even more than soiling such a pristine visage, France enjoys pleasing his partners; the idea that, at least for a time, the two of them can share the same delight in the sensual.
France rubs his hand through wet and black, watching it soak in and smear - not enough, clothing isn’t the ideal canvas for this - he wonders if, even so, it is enough to reach the skin beneath. And that has him moaning, hand twitching in the wet fabric beneath it. Denmark echoes his sentiments with a small noise from deep in his chest - France can feel it under his fingers - and, ah, he cannot forget Denmark.
“That is,” France huffs, once more surprised at how very rough his voice is, already, “keep doing that, if you wish.”
“Yeah, well, keep talkin’ and we’ll see,” Denmark smirks, and begins to chuckle but sharply inhales instead when France twists a nipple through the fabric.
“For your snark, darling,” France murmurs while he thumbs down the line of paint, long fingers alternately skittering and dragging down Denmark’s side, over his ribs -
“Well shit, guessin’ I should keep snarking.”
France chuckles, grinds his hips down, presses his hand hard into Denmark’s ribcage simply to feel the combination of wet paint, rough shirt, tough, sinewy muscle underlying it all - Denmark’s hand moves between them to hastily begin unbuttoning the first thing it reaches.
“Yer too slow, man,” Denmark winks. France knows what Denmark is after, and shakes his head at his antics before curling his hand, blunt nails digging into the fabric and into the skin and bone of Denmark’s ribs. Hard. Very rough. He wonders that the fabric doesn’t tear.
Denmark’s smile - and his hand - falters as he gasps and arches up into it. France brings his fingers in, slightly, and Denmark shudders and recovers, his hand on his pants working double-time to make up for the loss.
“C’mon, grab that dirt why don’t ya? I wanna see you a complete mess...” Denmark pauses, considering his words, frowns, barks a laugh, shrugs beneath him, fabric of his shirt noisily scratching against the wood of the floor - “well, ya know what I mean.” His hand begins working on the fastenings to France’s trousers.
France bucks into Denmark’s hand and Denmark draws it away and rolls his eyes, grin stretching even wider before - oh. Oh. He grabs some dirt - spilling it, of course - swipes it down his own neck with that maddening grin all-too-present.
France’s breath slams to a stop - but Denmark, Denmark, he keeps going - large hand and thick fingers smearing it down in a wide, uneven stroke, extending his fingers under his shirt collar and teasing for a moment.
“My God,” France breathes - it is barely audible, he doesn’t think he has breath to waste on this - but to Denmark, he must show his gratitude - for of this image, he is very grateful.
“Mmm-hmm,” Denmark cheerily agrees, then moves his hand to the clean side of his face, lightly smacking it against the skin there, tips of his fingers smearing dirt on the edge of his smile, just the corner.
That swallow - harsh, loud, entirely obvious - it takes France a second to realize that the noise came from himself, and the next sees him cradling Denmark’s face in both hands, one delightfully tangling in Denmark’s filthy fingers, the other slipping through paint and dirt that is alternately sweat-streaked and flaking in places. He quickly observes, eyes flitting across Denmark’s face - finally landing to rest on that tiny streak of dirt, along the very left edge of Denmark’s bitten, swollen lip. Deep red and black, always such an intoxicating combination. Bottles of wine, death of the day, death in battle, Denmark’s attire - Denmark knew. Prussia knew. France, of course, knew.
France wants to taste it. It will not taste like wine, no, but it will certainly be as potent.
He bends down, one fluid motion, and peeks his tongue out over Denmark’s quivering, cheshire grin. It tastes of salt, musk, the earth - as it should. It sends a pulse of heat straight through him - the idea that Denmark would taste of the things that make him up, of what he came from - the heat gathers in his chest, in his groin.
He has to ignore such things - regard them, for now, as frivolous, physical - despite how much he may like the sensations in any other situation - if he is to continue this.
Denmark’s hand guides his own down his neck, down those sloppy streaks of dirt and sweat; the other reaches between them, finishing what he started. It’s hasty, and France is perfectly fine with this - the both of them slipping and lurching out of cloth, too binding, too tight - knees knocking and - ah, shoes.
They pull away from each other, for a moment, shucking off shoes, pants, shirts, undergarments - France eyes Denmark’s powerful thighs and bends, brings his mouth to the muscle and hair, nipping a line up one, watching as the sinew jumps under his ministrations.
And then Denmark grabs his hand with a low, amused sound, half-throws France’s body over him, and thrusts their joined arms into the container. It spills, but neither minds at this point - France merely fists the dirt, glides up against Denmark’s body as he does so - sweat and skin so sweetly meet, a fleeting instant - feels the soil as it crumbles through his fingers, takes a breath to steady himself.
Pulls back - he wants to throw it over Denmark’s thigh, see the patterns as they land - makes his own pattern instead. A bold streak, the remainder falling down, arcing over strong muscle, some catching in hair, dots and trails and patterns - Monet and Kandinsky combined, if the two weren’t so disposed to pure color and instead painted sepia grit and flesh -
Denmark mouths his neck and France’s ears are filled with Denmark’s breathless snickering. It takes him a moment to register his own ragged breathing through it - and suddenly Denmark wraps both hands around his waist and topples them both back onto the floor. They meet in one loud thump that echoes and resounds through the room, over sounds of their living, breathing -
Just as suddenly, Denmark’s wide, wet hand has enveloped both of their arousals.
“When,” France gasps into Denmark’s collarbone, pushing himself up once more, “did you get the lube, may I ask.”
Denmark’s eyes scrunch up at him, mischievous and knowing, and still very, very bright. Blue. He tightens his hold and roughly brings his hand up, both of them wet, hard, sliding against one another, pulsing - flashes him a bruised, marred grin over white teeth - France moans. Denmark continues, grin widening even further, despite his increased flush, as France becomes undone.
His hand pulls away and France attempts to regain his bearing, as well as his breathing.
Denmark turns his head to the side, hand groping clumsily. “This ain’t wet enough. This thing is s’posed ta be sloppy, yeah?” he half-laughs, half-pants. The hand returns before France can respond - dripping, this time.
And, ah - that - that is nice, indeed. Denmark rubs them, together, tight, fast, good - France tries to buck into the heat, the sloppy friction, all while palming Denmark’s face with his free hand, thumbing into the hollow beneath his cheekbone - he can feel the outline of teeth and jaw underneath Denmark’s skin - teeth, bone, blood, sinew -
“Stop,” France grits out, and pulls back.
Denmark freezes, wide-eyed.
“I - I’m afraid - “ a huff - “ it seems, dear - “ another desperate try for air - “I’m too close.” He tries to laugh, but it is more of a wheeze.
Loud, relieved, breathless laughter from beneath him, and Denmark removes his hand from the two of them - runs it along France’s backside, instead. “Guess I getta fuck ya today, huh?”
France lowers his face, noses Denmark’s neck, jaw, ear - indulging in the combined scent of earth, sharp chemical paint, and Denmark’s unique blend of musk and sea - nods. He can’t - a verbal response is too much. He would rather focus on the taut lines of the tendons in Denmark’s neck beneath his teeth.
Denmark presses slick fingers against him - France speeds him on with a sharp bite - and, ah, that is all the encouragement needed. Denmark jerks and a finger goes in. Funny; as much as Denmark himself enjoyed harsh, fast preparation, he is loathe to do so to France. France leans back on his haunches, braces the dirty hand against Denmark’s chest - still too clean - that should - oh.
He reaches back with the clean hand, linking his fingers in Denmark’s, and presses, pushes. Denmark swears, low and strong - so he is getting into it, France thinks.
“You will last longer,” France belatedly answers.
“I -” Denmark’s speech hitches as France runs his nails down one side of that heaving ribcage - beautiful pink lines flaring, a nice, sharp accompaniment to the smeared darkness on the mirroring side - “Yeah. I -” France does it again. “I got it,” Denmark answers, rushed, all at once.
“And if I keep doing this?” France smiles, the question only interrupted for a moment as Denmark pushes more, further into him, and France pushes back, abrupt - France digs his nails in further before once more returning to the paint.
Lube-slicked fingers within, paint-slicked fingers without - clear and black, France can’t help but think of the contrast as he runs black lines along the rose-hued ones already there - he groans and pulls Denmark’s hand away before pinning it above their heads in one swift motion, crashing their lips together though neither has the breath to manage it. They will manage; they always do.
Between nips and bites and tongue and saliva they do. Hot panted breaths between swollen, damaged skin, between the quick moments when their lips part - France grips the bones, tendons, muscle of Denmark’s wrist in his hand, wants to feel it all move, life under his palm - their torsos slide together with more ease than sweat can provide. Paint. Lube. France moans; Denmark does so in response.
Noise. Yes. How could he forget? France mutters under his breath, into Denmark’s inflamed lips, invasive tongue, flat teeth - moves his head to the side and drags his lips along the paint and dirt and sweat along Denmark’s jaw, keeping up the litany of mumbled dirty talk if only to hear Denmark’s keen, feel his body shudder beneath his own, feel a hand claw up his backside.
When Denmark begins issuing gibberish - how easily mere words, ephemeral things that they were, throw him into such a state - France reaches around, grabs him, sinks down onto him. Denmark sucks in a breath as his eyes fly open, spine taut and thrumming beneath France, resisting the urge to move.
The both of them take a few moments to adjust. To reorient themselves, come back down to the present, the moment - pale, sweaty skin, empty buzz of the lamps above, hard, cool floor below, breathing too loud, bodies overwound and overwrought and too still to contain the echoing buzz within - before they move again. France is the one who finally makes a motion, only a slight twist of the hips, but it is enough to get them started again. Denmark, it seems, has been waiting for this cue - he grabs France's hips, both hands, wide and clumsy and hasty. Licks his lips, fingers drawing in tighter, and barely bucks up, just a fraction of an inch. A hiss as he seats himself further, and France's breath stutters in turn.
France moves up, forward a little, back, rolling his hips somewhat and continuing to adjust to the intrusion; Denmark tries to control his breathing. His flush, half-hidden beneath his dark, dark excuse for makeup, is breathtaking.
France moves back down, and between their sweat-slicked thighs he feels the tale-tale friction of grit and grime, Denmark’s filth moving against his skin. He shudders, leans back - squaring his shoulders, arching his back - at the sensation. Denmark, too, arches up with a small noise - France brings both hands down to their thighs, then down to Denmark’s own thighs. Nails in, dirty, slipping against skin, he digs them in. Denmark groans, his own fingers digging into France’s hips, and braces them while he moves with ever more haste.
Denmark’s heels slip on the floor - France can hear him, trying to gain leverage, more friction - despite this, one hand makes its way to France’s arousal, palms it.
France shudders and grinds down, even while observing the dark patterns against Denmark’s skin, blush on Denmark’s face, clear, shining sheen overlaying all of it -
“Ah, no - ” France guides the hand away even while moving himself up, in time to Denmark’s slow thrusts - “too soon.”
Denmark swallows and groans, moves his hand back to its position on France’s hip. They keep moving - medium tempo, yet deliberate, rough - every sensation sends a spark through France as he observes - Denmark’s muscle moving, painted, highlighted and darkened all at once, under him -
It is so rare that France has problems lasting, but this - Denmark’s laughter, forced out through pants, and groans, informs him that his companion thinks the same.
“You - you’re pretty damn - quiet,” Denmark huffs, over the meeting of their bodies, sweat-skin slap on skin.
“My apologies,” France laughs, or, tries to laugh; it is funny, after all, that the one who talks so very much at such a volume should be the one who requests conversation in return; he brings one hand to cup Denmark’s jaw, the other - the painted one - meeting Denmark’s at his hip, tangling in it. Their fingers slide together, dried paint sticking in parts. “And what - “ another synchronized movement, and Denmark hits home - “oh” - France’s fingers tighten on that jaw - “what would you - have me - talk about?”
Denmark grins even as his eyes try to clench shut. “Was thinkin’ - y’know what I think’d be hot...”
He picks up the pace, possibly unconsciously, and France’s breathing picks up to match.
“Do continue,” France breathes.
“Huh? Oh,” another thrust, “if - after this - ya’d fuck me - in the mouth. Y’know?” He looks away for this pronouncement, and France can’t help but chuckle. Denmark seems to choose the strangest things to be hesitant about.
“If that is how you want it,” France twists their hands together and meets Denmark ever more fiercely, “I cannot argue. Though - is it - ” France gasps as the angle becomes particularly pleasurable - “that you would like to suck me off - ah - or is it that you would like me to come there?”
Denmark stills at the last option for a split-second before making up for it at double-speed.
France does not mind this, no, not at all, and sends his nails down Denmark’s chest once more in encouragement. “Mm - it seems - that either option is fine?” Only hands against his hips tightening, the continued sound of heels slipping, and a guttural sound in response. France is mildly surprised either of them is coherent enough to understand and carry on a conversation, what with the manner in which they are breathing, how very invested they seem to be in the moment. “And - if I were to pull away at the last moment -? On your chest, perhaps?”
And Denmark moans outright, then.
France brings his thumb to Denmark’s mouth and keeps talking, about how the weight of him would feel against Denmark’s tongue, about the paint smeared over cheekbones, jawline, chin - about the dirt underneath - about anything, anything at all - for he knows he can paint suitable pictures with words, however staggeringly they are uttered - Denmark’s increasingly hurried motions are merely a testament to how it affects him.
Increasingly rough motions, increasingly fast motions, and France only encourages it, watching as the muscles and bones of Denmark’s torso move further, below paint, below dirt, all of it only made more impressive by the filth. The hand at Denmark’s face moves of its own accord, skirting over his neck, tight and corded, over his chest, heaving underneath and wet from many things, over his face, bone structure illuminated and shadowed simultaneously.
France isn’t aware of his breathing, but surely it matches Denmark’s - fast, desperate as their bodies meet, arch, keen, against one another - alternately coming through nose, open mouth, any manner at all.
His fingers press down against Denmark’s lower lip, and Denmark takes them in, nips the ends. France swears and murmurs something, low, French, he does not know, precisely. However, the result is Denmark’s groan, which echoes around the walls, the ceilings, over the lamplight buzz and hum - his harsh buck and thrust up - a good one, France groans as well - Denmark’s muscles spasm under their raggedly-applied cover, and he curves his neck at a nearly unnatural angle.
France murmurs at that - dirt, rose flush, lines, blood, bones, sinew, all available in one sharp image - Denmark calls out and finishes within him. A few twitching thrusts, and France ensures that every last motion counts. Then Denmark flops, boneless and breathless, against the floor.
Denmark pulls out, eyes glazed, countenance dazed, as he steadies his breathing. France allows it, though his own breathing is rapid and doesn’t calm along with his partner’s - he reaches over to light a cigarette in the meantime, needing something, anything to do, some form of release - it lights, flares to life, burning bright before smoke spills out and pale-as-death ashes form at the tip. He can’t keep his breath steady enough to gain much from it, but is content to watch it burn all the same. Ashes gather at the end while Denmark recovers below, and fall, spinning, spiraling, down - fall and stick, settling themselves among the colored lines covering Denmark’s chest.
France smokes and watches as the ashes spiral down with each light tap - quick movements, miniature dance - of his fingers. The ashes have their own dance, and it is much more elegant than his. The urge to - to push against it all, be a part of it - it almost overwhelms.
The difference between France’s angular motions of flesh and bone, and those of soft, floating ash, landing and sticking where it may - France swallows and grips the cigarette tighter, almost bending it, unknowingly.
Denmark barely raises his hand, twitches his fingers, and France obliges him - one deep inhale and it handed back, Denmark’s arm flopping to the floor with a loud thud. The light rain of ash continues as Denmark closes his eyes - France cannot resist and uses one hand to idly smear the colors - not color, precisely, it’s monochrome, but then again the Impressionists had something to say about that, did they not? The motion, the textures, heat of flesh through paint - it makes him impatient to continue. Yet Denmark is still out of it, silly smile and unmoving hands on his hips. France closes his own eyes, but instead of the expected calm darkness brings, he’s only reminded of the embellishments upon Denmark’s chest. Only alerted to sounds, smells, feeling of Denmark’s prone form, soft yet solid, beneath his own trembling thighs.
The cigarette is moved from his lips - it isn’t helping, not in the least - and suddenly Denmark’s hands upon his hips tighten as he and pulls France forward with a huff of laughter. France gasps as the cigarette flies from his hand, still lit, only halfway diminished. Denmark twists and grabs it, wrapping the other arm around him as he draws him down, toward his face, toward that - that smile.
Shaking arms bracing his weight over Denmark’s head, his arousal just centimeters away from - he is so close, in a multitude of ways. France groans and pulls back a bit, despite all urges to push forward, close that gap - Denmark grins and locks his arm, keeping France there - brings the cigarette to his lips and smirks around it.
“You’re - you are doing this on purpose, no?” France grits out, sounding breathless and somewhat desperate even to his own ears.
Denmark grins wider, inhales, eyes crinkling up at him. “Psh, yeah,” he mutters around the filter, and somehow manages to sound breathless, enthusiastic, mischievous, and well-sexed all at once.
“You - you, dear, are simply -” Denmark tosses the finished cigarette to the side, twists his neck to exhale - “terrible.”
Denmark chuckles, turns back, and brings France’s hips closer, tonguing the tip of his erection - oh, and urge to jerk into that, France just barely holds back - before he presses his mouth flush, fully, and mutters “Hey, yer into it,” still with a grin.
“I am - “ and here, of course, is where Denmark takes him entirely into his mouth, before he can inform him that while yes, he does appreciate a decent tease - but honestly! -
He groans and rakes his fingers through Denmark’s hair, barely possessing the wherewithal to not indulge in such a crude act as - as face-fucking, surely - Denmark does not seem to care, and pulls him in further, deeper.
A low noise he belatedly realizes is from himself, and Denmark, with those hands of his, pulls him back out.
“If ya wanna,” he breathes.
“If you would stop teasing - “
Denmark pulls him back and nearly suckles at him, if such a word were to be used for a sex act, but regardless France cannot think of that now, not with those bruised and painted lips upon him, those still-clear eyes looking up at him from the dirt and pitch surrounding them. Denmark brings a hand up as he does so and strokes him, mutters “‘M not,” against his flesh, exaggerating the sounds.
Finally leans away, hand still working and slick between them. “Do watcha you want,” he grins, hand working harder, surer now.
So close, and he’s imagining, already, sticky white upon smooth black, haphazardly deposited - makes an unseemly sound at the thought.
“M’already a mess,” Denmark goads, and takes a hand from France’s hip to slide them both down his neck, across his pulse and the strength and heat of him, the same heat that keeps the paint wet, the same grit that they all came from and are capable of -
France keens and nearly shuts his eyes at the sensation, but he simply cannot, not now, though Denmark does even as he continues his motions; hot, sticky strands of white marring the black, mixing in and sliding down, and as he comes he hastily swipes a hand through it, feeling hot and cold, smooth and rough, black and white...
All of the opposing forces that somehow come together onto one canvas and make them who they are, and it was marvelous.
Characters: Denmark/France
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Porn, smoking, salirophilia.
Notes: Only took me a year to finish this, yep.
Summary: France finds beauty in the defilement.
France looks out over Paris, sunset-burnished and sparkling, through the haze of smoke from his cigarette. He thinks the smoke completes it, really. Without the screen it isn’t proper, isn’t right - it shines as bright as his Sun King ever did, even with the sky growing dim. His city, his heart, it’s all glitter and glimmer and glow, people moving, sunset dapples on the Seine if he were to put another image to it.
The smoke, though. Perhaps distorting, but Paris was distorted once one looked, once one dug a little deeper. City grit and grime, alleyways, catacombs, rats skittering across métro rails while the wretched homeless kept warm from burning trash nearby.
The gray is appropriate.
Though to complete the image, it needs more brown.
Mud, yes. The dirty slosh of rainwater from the gutters isn’t quite muddy enough for his tastes, sometimes. France can be dirty - and a flash of recall, Germany, trenches, the lowground, Crécy, his men wallowing, choking, drowning in the mud while Allemagne and Angleterre -
Ah, Angleterre. And his Jeanne, his beloved Jeanne. As much as he blames Angleterre, a small part of him is thankful for such a fitting ending. Tragedy, surely, but a beautiful one - ashes to ashes, was it? He wonders if he’ll be ashes one day, he’d like to be; blood and bone dust falling back into the earth, seeping down, dripping into his tombs, crypts, catacombs.
He watches as the ashes of his cigarette disintegrate and fall down to the scene below, leaning against the balcony rail.
His streets could be ashes - they were, weren’t they, once, twice, many times - his cities as they burned, as blood ran down the streets, his fields trampled and torn -
He has a lot of history.
And what would you like to do, Denmark asks him then (after sex, on the rickety balcony of his Paris apartment - it is not in those words, precisely, but the meaning is the same) - interrupting his thoughts as always, and France only raises an elegant eyebrow and taps out his cigarette.
You indulge me - again, not the exact utterance - so what would you like to do? I’ve never seen you undone. That would be fun.
Ah, Denmark. Always so simple with his words, a drunken phone call of “Let’s fuck,” and a short time later France was happily attending to his needs. Or, like today, not so much a drunken phone call, simply a lazy afternoon hookup.
“So, what do ya want? I mean, shit, you never ask for anything in bed. Not sayin’ it’s not good or anything, ‘cause it is, but I’m feeling kinda guilty, y’know?”
France studies him as Denmark picks up a cigarette and lights it in the twilight. Sharp cheekbones, broad jawline, clear eyes, a wide, bright smile - it’s all so very - pristine, he thinks. Denmark watches France watching him and gives a chuckle, used to it by now. France finally replies. “Ashes and dirt.”
Denmark raises an eyebrow even as he blows smoke into the air. “Huh?”
“You’re so - clean. There is beauty in the defilement, my dear.”
Denmark, of course, snorts, and smiles, and rolls his eyes - candid, yes, he always is - tells him he needs to stop speaking in ideas as he is prone to do.
France smiles back, low, cool, toying. “Perhaps,” he begins, “it would simply be easier to show you.”
---
And so they make plans. Denmark will not wear anything he is fond of, will tell him if he goes too far, knows that afterward he will certainly be in need of a shower and will be looked at oddly by the passengers on the train home. He is perfectly okay with this - France is appreciative of Denmark’s lack of care for social graces, for once.
They meet in Paris, take a train out of the city, and end up in an abandoned - warehouse, it may have been at some point - either way it is a large, open, desolate building in the forgotten outskirts of the city, near the rail lines.
The lights, unaccustomed to use, flicker; their dim fluorescence contrasts with the natural panes of light streaming in from the windows, and France can feel the tempo of his heart rise, match their fluttering pulse.
They showcase the dust, dirt, grit in every corner. The creaky hardwood floors that lost their sheen a century ago. The cracks in the ceilings, flaky paint on the walls - France sighs as he looks around - it is nearly perfect in its imperfection. He half-wishes he could simply stand and peel the flakes of paint off the walls, but instead sets his bag down in the center of the room.
Denmark laughs a little. “On the floor?”
France smiles and nods. “I am sure you can stand a few bruises.” Denmark has a bit of masochistic streak, he knows. He can’t imagine Denmark complaining.
“Huh,” Denmark half-nods. “Well, what’s in the bag?”
France only smiles. “On the floor, darling.” Once Denmark is seated, legs akimbo and arms lazily thrown over them, France pulls out a few paints from his bag.
“Yer paintin’ me?”
“You ask so many questions, dear,” France replies as he opens a tube - blue, ah, that is not quite fitting for Denmark - he pulls out another color. Black. Yes, that will work. Denmark always did have a penchant for black - even now, sitting sprawled on the floor in his faded black jeans. Black would work splendidly.
“I thought ya said somethin’ about ash and dirt, man. Not, you know,” he waves a hand, “little tubes o’ paint.”
France simply nods. He has those things. There are more than enough cigarettes, along with a bottle of water and a decent amount of dirt, packed in those horrid disposable containers Amérique is so fond of - he pulls them out, shows them to Denmark, if only to stem the tide of his words.
The thought of smearing the dirt along Denmark’s cheekbone, in itself, is enough to make him harden somewhat. His breathing picks up, clearly audible over the buzz of warehouse lights - still quite dim, wonderful - Denmark notices and smirks.
“Gimme one of those,” Denmark gestures to the cigarettes, “if yer just gonna stand there all day.”
France licks his lips and complies, tossing Denmark both the pack and his lighter, watches Denmark carelessly light it and wonders where to begin. It has been a long while since he’s had the opportunity to indulge in this.
He sits down in front of Denmark and observes, and as usual Denmark is happy to be looked at, scrutinized. He always did like being the center of attention, no? France plays with the tube of black paint in his hand, turning the cap, tightening it again, over and over.
“C’mon, jus’ get on with it,” Denmark goads.
And so, France does. Opens the paint and sets the lid gingerly to the side, smears some on his finger, leans in. Tentatively touches some to Denmark’s face - he’s still smoking, cheeks sunken in on the inhale - and that - ah. That works nicely.
Denmark blows the smoke in his face and laughs, then stubs out the cigarette on the floor. Careless, always careless. “Since when’re you so shy, man?” Denmark kicks out a leg and nudges him with his foot.
That’s all that France needs, if he needed any encouragement at all, really, and he leans forward, straddles Denmark’s lap even as he takes hold of that strong jaw in his own hands and kisses him fiercely. The paint covering his right hand - Denmark’s left cheek - he can feel it slide between them and coat the side of Denmark’s face. His breath hitches mid-kiss, Denmark laughs a little into his mouth and grabs his waist, pulling him in closer.
Denmark breaks the kiss and laughs even more when he feels France’s erection pressed against his stomach. France sighs and half-rolls his eyes, and soon their lips meet again as he slides his fingers back and forth, back and forth across the smear over Denmark’s face. The fluidity there really highlights Denmark’s bone structure, he thinks - he pulls back and watches as his fingers press into that cheekbone, up the temple in a smear - even across the sharp jut of his brow line. The paint catches in the hairs, there - France leans forward to place a kiss on it, breathing already undone.
Strong hands grip his hips, a little too tight, but Denmark is always like that. “Patience, dear,” France breathes onto Denmark’s forehead. His breath disturbs the hair falling over it, in the way, and he pulls back even further, allowing his hips to rut into Denmark’s muscular stomach, traces his fingers over that forehead and swallows when they leave the faintest trails of paint across the clear skin.
Denmark laughs. “Sorry! Y’know I’m no good at bein’ patient.” He punctuates that by pulling France down and lifting his hips up to meet France’s - Denmark is almost fully hard and France barely keeps down a moan.
“Yes,” France whispers, and it comes out harsher than he anticipated. “I know.” He brings both hands up and cups Denmark’s jaw, one hand on either side - the disparity between one soiled hand ruining the skin there, and the other, clean and manicured over freshly-shaven skin -
He groans out loud, this time.
“Ya really like this, huh?” Denmark grins, and leans in and runs his tongue up France’s neck.
France growls and shoves Denmark to the floor with one hand while the other - the dirty one, the tainted one - it grabs the bag and ruins it too, in its fumbling. He half wants to pour the container of dirt out, all over Denmark’s face, his cocky grin, right then. Unfortunately, he knows he’ll come too soon if he goes so quickly. So he simply fumbles it open while Denmark smirks up at him - amused with his lack of grace, he can only assume - and swipes his fingers through it before bringing them up to hover over that grin.
It doesn’t waver. Wonderful.
He takes a deep breath and lowers his hand, watching as the dirt mingles with the paint already there, delightfully interrupting the smooth texture of Denmark’s face. And if he - ah, there - spreads his fingers out of the sharp planes of black paint, and now he can see how the dirt mars Denmark’s skin a bit more clearly. Hm, well, not clear, not clearly - clear isn’t right. It’s such a small change, really - but a bit of dirt has him grinding down onto Denmark’s thigh.
He clenches his other hand into Denmark’s shirt and twists - it hurts his hand, to twist so hard, but there is nothing so satisfying as the sound of the fabric ripping. Denmark grabs both of his thighs, one hand on either side, and digs his thumbs into the muscle, through the pants - France curses, barely audible, upon seeing pale skin peek through the rip in Denmark’s shirt.
That shirt is too clean.
He brings his other hand to Denmark’s shirt and runs it down - wipes it clean, in a way - watches as the stain runs from flesh to fabric instead, takes a moment to appreciate that Denmark thought to wear something light in color. Or perhaps he never gave it a thought and simply threw on the first thing he touched this morning - either way.
The fingers of his other hand tease at the rip in Denmark’s shirt, peeking in and barely brushing against soft skin and chest hair, then run back along the seam between frayed fabric and skin. France’s breath stutters. Denmark lips his lips, minutely - pink tongue poking through white teeth, and France thinks that those colors will need to change, won’t they - and Denmark ruts up against him once more, broad, strong hands bringing their bodies together, fabric against fabric, length against length, glorious.
A barely audible hiss from France is the only warning Denmark gets before their lips are smashed together once more, and this time France aims for a little bruising, perhaps blood - Denmark always did have a thing for that. France can’t say that he doesn’t see the appeal. He obliges Denmark, though only after a short-lived but heated battle between tongues, his smooth lips crudely pressing against Denmark’s slightly chapped ones, the contours of both of their bodies obvious through their clothes as they move against one another.
Only when he needs air does France pull away. As he does, he opens his eyes to meet Denmark’s, making sure that his hot breaths linger over stained skin, his chin, his lips - a small, playful kiss to the tip of Denmark’s nose is quickly followed by France’s sharp teeth sinking into Denmark’s lower lip, and staying.
Denmark’s eyes flutter and he groans, hands raking up France’s sides - France twists his jaw, slightly, tastes copper and metal tang - Denmark presses them together, so tight, so flush, it is almost painful. France swallows, pulls up, swollen lip still in his grasp, while one hand resumes stroking through the mess on Denmark’s face.
A halting breath, half-out his nose and half-into Denmark’s mouth - France can see at close range, now, the tarnished canvas of Denmark’s face. Sweat breaks out across it, especially his forehead, and is joined by a light flush. The pink looks nice with the black, yes. Like the last gasp of dusk, perhaps, in the countryside, or over a battlefield - that would be the more proper allusion, what with the smell of blood, sweat, dirt in the air.
Though the flickering yellow of the warehouse lights do add an air of the urban to this, after all -
“France,” Denmark huffs - or tries to, it is rather indecipherable with one lip trapped in the blunt cage of France’s teeth - and shifts underneath, pointedly pressing their erections together.
Ah. It would not do to forget Denmark in this - what sort of lover would that make him? Certainly not one worthy of his reputation. France pulls back and gives a gentle kiss of apology; Denmark grabs his hair, tight and fierce, and tears all of the gentleness away from the liplock.
France wants to laugh, but he doesn’t.
Instead he indulges Denmark for another minute, two, he is not quite sure, and pulls away once they are both breathing hard, shifts to his elbow and once again reaches for the paint. Straightens his arm out, but makes sure to keep their lower bodies aligned even as he adds a streak of black, straight from the tube, onto Denmark’s clothing.
Denmark grabs his ass through the trousers and continues his primal rutting - France is sure to make some sound of appreciation, as he cannot forget Denmark, and Denmark finds such things arousing - and France always aims to please. Even more than soiling such a pristine visage, France enjoys pleasing his partners; the idea that, at least for a time, the two of them can share the same delight in the sensual.
France rubs his hand through wet and black, watching it soak in and smear - not enough, clothing isn’t the ideal canvas for this - he wonders if, even so, it is enough to reach the skin beneath. And that has him moaning, hand twitching in the wet fabric beneath it. Denmark echoes his sentiments with a small noise from deep in his chest - France can feel it under his fingers - and, ah, he cannot forget Denmark.
“That is,” France huffs, once more surprised at how very rough his voice is, already, “keep doing that, if you wish.”
“Yeah, well, keep talkin’ and we’ll see,” Denmark smirks, and begins to chuckle but sharply inhales instead when France twists a nipple through the fabric.
“For your snark, darling,” France murmurs while he thumbs down the line of paint, long fingers alternately skittering and dragging down Denmark’s side, over his ribs -
“Well shit, guessin’ I should keep snarking.”
France chuckles, grinds his hips down, presses his hand hard into Denmark’s ribcage simply to feel the combination of wet paint, rough shirt, tough, sinewy muscle underlying it all - Denmark’s hand moves between them to hastily begin unbuttoning the first thing it reaches.
“Yer too slow, man,” Denmark winks. France knows what Denmark is after, and shakes his head at his antics before curling his hand, blunt nails digging into the fabric and into the skin and bone of Denmark’s ribs. Hard. Very rough. He wonders that the fabric doesn’t tear.
Denmark’s smile - and his hand - falters as he gasps and arches up into it. France brings his fingers in, slightly, and Denmark shudders and recovers, his hand on his pants working double-time to make up for the loss.
“C’mon, grab that dirt why don’t ya? I wanna see you a complete mess...” Denmark pauses, considering his words, frowns, barks a laugh, shrugs beneath him, fabric of his shirt noisily scratching against the wood of the floor - “well, ya know what I mean.” His hand begins working on the fastenings to France’s trousers.
France bucks into Denmark’s hand and Denmark draws it away and rolls his eyes, grin stretching even wider before - oh. Oh. He grabs some dirt - spilling it, of course - swipes it down his own neck with that maddening grin all-too-present.
France’s breath slams to a stop - but Denmark, Denmark, he keeps going - large hand and thick fingers smearing it down in a wide, uneven stroke, extending his fingers under his shirt collar and teasing for a moment.
“My God,” France breathes - it is barely audible, he doesn’t think he has breath to waste on this - but to Denmark, he must show his gratitude - for of this image, he is very grateful.
“Mmm-hmm,” Denmark cheerily agrees, then moves his hand to the clean side of his face, lightly smacking it against the skin there, tips of his fingers smearing dirt on the edge of his smile, just the corner.
That swallow - harsh, loud, entirely obvious - it takes France a second to realize that the noise came from himself, and the next sees him cradling Denmark’s face in both hands, one delightfully tangling in Denmark’s filthy fingers, the other slipping through paint and dirt that is alternately sweat-streaked and flaking in places. He quickly observes, eyes flitting across Denmark’s face - finally landing to rest on that tiny streak of dirt, along the very left edge of Denmark’s bitten, swollen lip. Deep red and black, always such an intoxicating combination. Bottles of wine, death of the day, death in battle, Denmark’s attire - Denmark knew. Prussia knew. France, of course, knew.
France wants to taste it. It will not taste like wine, no, but it will certainly be as potent.
He bends down, one fluid motion, and peeks his tongue out over Denmark’s quivering, cheshire grin. It tastes of salt, musk, the earth - as it should. It sends a pulse of heat straight through him - the idea that Denmark would taste of the things that make him up, of what he came from - the heat gathers in his chest, in his groin.
He has to ignore such things - regard them, for now, as frivolous, physical - despite how much he may like the sensations in any other situation - if he is to continue this.
Denmark’s hand guides his own down his neck, down those sloppy streaks of dirt and sweat; the other reaches between them, finishing what he started. It’s hasty, and France is perfectly fine with this - the both of them slipping and lurching out of cloth, too binding, too tight - knees knocking and - ah, shoes.
They pull away from each other, for a moment, shucking off shoes, pants, shirts, undergarments - France eyes Denmark’s powerful thighs and bends, brings his mouth to the muscle and hair, nipping a line up one, watching as the sinew jumps under his ministrations.
And then Denmark grabs his hand with a low, amused sound, half-throws France’s body over him, and thrusts their joined arms into the container. It spills, but neither minds at this point - France merely fists the dirt, glides up against Denmark’s body as he does so - sweat and skin so sweetly meet, a fleeting instant - feels the soil as it crumbles through his fingers, takes a breath to steady himself.
Pulls back - he wants to throw it over Denmark’s thigh, see the patterns as they land - makes his own pattern instead. A bold streak, the remainder falling down, arcing over strong muscle, some catching in hair, dots and trails and patterns - Monet and Kandinsky combined, if the two weren’t so disposed to pure color and instead painted sepia grit and flesh -
Denmark mouths his neck and France’s ears are filled with Denmark’s breathless snickering. It takes him a moment to register his own ragged breathing through it - and suddenly Denmark wraps both hands around his waist and topples them both back onto the floor. They meet in one loud thump that echoes and resounds through the room, over sounds of their living, breathing -
Just as suddenly, Denmark’s wide, wet hand has enveloped both of their arousals.
“When,” France gasps into Denmark’s collarbone, pushing himself up once more, “did you get the lube, may I ask.”
Denmark’s eyes scrunch up at him, mischievous and knowing, and still very, very bright. Blue. He tightens his hold and roughly brings his hand up, both of them wet, hard, sliding against one another, pulsing - flashes him a bruised, marred grin over white teeth - France moans. Denmark continues, grin widening even further, despite his increased flush, as France becomes undone.
His hand pulls away and France attempts to regain his bearing, as well as his breathing.
Denmark turns his head to the side, hand groping clumsily. “This ain’t wet enough. This thing is s’posed ta be sloppy, yeah?” he half-laughs, half-pants. The hand returns before France can respond - dripping, this time.
And, ah - that - that is nice, indeed. Denmark rubs them, together, tight, fast, good - France tries to buck into the heat, the sloppy friction, all while palming Denmark’s face with his free hand, thumbing into the hollow beneath his cheekbone - he can feel the outline of teeth and jaw underneath Denmark’s skin - teeth, bone, blood, sinew -
“Stop,” France grits out, and pulls back.
Denmark freezes, wide-eyed.
“I - I’m afraid - “ a huff - “ it seems, dear - “ another desperate try for air - “I’m too close.” He tries to laugh, but it is more of a wheeze.
Loud, relieved, breathless laughter from beneath him, and Denmark removes his hand from the two of them - runs it along France’s backside, instead. “Guess I getta fuck ya today, huh?”
France lowers his face, noses Denmark’s neck, jaw, ear - indulging in the combined scent of earth, sharp chemical paint, and Denmark’s unique blend of musk and sea - nods. He can’t - a verbal response is too much. He would rather focus on the taut lines of the tendons in Denmark’s neck beneath his teeth.
Denmark presses slick fingers against him - France speeds him on with a sharp bite - and, ah, that is all the encouragement needed. Denmark jerks and a finger goes in. Funny; as much as Denmark himself enjoyed harsh, fast preparation, he is loathe to do so to France. France leans back on his haunches, braces the dirty hand against Denmark’s chest - still too clean - that should - oh.
He reaches back with the clean hand, linking his fingers in Denmark’s, and presses, pushes. Denmark swears, low and strong - so he is getting into it, France thinks.
“You will last longer,” France belatedly answers.
“I -” Denmark’s speech hitches as France runs his nails down one side of that heaving ribcage - beautiful pink lines flaring, a nice, sharp accompaniment to the smeared darkness on the mirroring side - “Yeah. I -” France does it again. “I got it,” Denmark answers, rushed, all at once.
“And if I keep doing this?” France smiles, the question only interrupted for a moment as Denmark pushes more, further into him, and France pushes back, abrupt - France digs his nails in further before once more returning to the paint.
Lube-slicked fingers within, paint-slicked fingers without - clear and black, France can’t help but think of the contrast as he runs black lines along the rose-hued ones already there - he groans and pulls Denmark’s hand away before pinning it above their heads in one swift motion, crashing their lips together though neither has the breath to manage it. They will manage; they always do.
Between nips and bites and tongue and saliva they do. Hot panted breaths between swollen, damaged skin, between the quick moments when their lips part - France grips the bones, tendons, muscle of Denmark’s wrist in his hand, wants to feel it all move, life under his palm - their torsos slide together with more ease than sweat can provide. Paint. Lube. France moans; Denmark does so in response.
Noise. Yes. How could he forget? France mutters under his breath, into Denmark’s inflamed lips, invasive tongue, flat teeth - moves his head to the side and drags his lips along the paint and dirt and sweat along Denmark’s jaw, keeping up the litany of mumbled dirty talk if only to hear Denmark’s keen, feel his body shudder beneath his own, feel a hand claw up his backside.
When Denmark begins issuing gibberish - how easily mere words, ephemeral things that they were, throw him into such a state - France reaches around, grabs him, sinks down onto him. Denmark sucks in a breath as his eyes fly open, spine taut and thrumming beneath France, resisting the urge to move.
The both of them take a few moments to adjust. To reorient themselves, come back down to the present, the moment - pale, sweaty skin, empty buzz of the lamps above, hard, cool floor below, breathing too loud, bodies overwound and overwrought and too still to contain the echoing buzz within - before they move again. France is the one who finally makes a motion, only a slight twist of the hips, but it is enough to get them started again. Denmark, it seems, has been waiting for this cue - he grabs France's hips, both hands, wide and clumsy and hasty. Licks his lips, fingers drawing in tighter, and barely bucks up, just a fraction of an inch. A hiss as he seats himself further, and France's breath stutters in turn.
France moves up, forward a little, back, rolling his hips somewhat and continuing to adjust to the intrusion; Denmark tries to control his breathing. His flush, half-hidden beneath his dark, dark excuse for makeup, is breathtaking.
France moves back down, and between their sweat-slicked thighs he feels the tale-tale friction of grit and grime, Denmark’s filth moving against his skin. He shudders, leans back - squaring his shoulders, arching his back - at the sensation. Denmark, too, arches up with a small noise - France brings both hands down to their thighs, then down to Denmark’s own thighs. Nails in, dirty, slipping against skin, he digs them in. Denmark groans, his own fingers digging into France’s hips, and braces them while he moves with ever more haste.
Denmark’s heels slip on the floor - France can hear him, trying to gain leverage, more friction - despite this, one hand makes its way to France’s arousal, palms it.
France shudders and grinds down, even while observing the dark patterns against Denmark’s skin, blush on Denmark’s face, clear, shining sheen overlaying all of it -
“Ah, no - ” France guides the hand away even while moving himself up, in time to Denmark’s slow thrusts - “too soon.”
Denmark swallows and groans, moves his hand back to its position on France’s hip. They keep moving - medium tempo, yet deliberate, rough - every sensation sends a spark through France as he observes - Denmark’s muscle moving, painted, highlighted and darkened all at once, under him -
It is so rare that France has problems lasting, but this - Denmark’s laughter, forced out through pants, and groans, informs him that his companion thinks the same.
“You - you’re pretty damn - quiet,” Denmark huffs, over the meeting of their bodies, sweat-skin slap on skin.
“My apologies,” France laughs, or, tries to laugh; it is funny, after all, that the one who talks so very much at such a volume should be the one who requests conversation in return; he brings one hand to cup Denmark’s jaw, the other - the painted one - meeting Denmark’s at his hip, tangling in it. Their fingers slide together, dried paint sticking in parts. “And what - “ another synchronized movement, and Denmark hits home - “oh” - France’s fingers tighten on that jaw - “what would you - have me - talk about?”
Denmark grins even as his eyes try to clench shut. “Was thinkin’ - y’know what I think’d be hot...”
He picks up the pace, possibly unconsciously, and France’s breathing picks up to match.
“Do continue,” France breathes.
“Huh? Oh,” another thrust, “if - after this - ya’d fuck me - in the mouth. Y’know?” He looks away for this pronouncement, and France can’t help but chuckle. Denmark seems to choose the strangest things to be hesitant about.
“If that is how you want it,” France twists their hands together and meets Denmark ever more fiercely, “I cannot argue. Though - is it - ” France gasps as the angle becomes particularly pleasurable - “that you would like to suck me off - ah - or is it that you would like me to come there?”
Denmark stills at the last option for a split-second before making up for it at double-speed.
France does not mind this, no, not at all, and sends his nails down Denmark’s chest once more in encouragement. “Mm - it seems - that either option is fine?” Only hands against his hips tightening, the continued sound of heels slipping, and a guttural sound in response. France is mildly surprised either of them is coherent enough to understand and carry on a conversation, what with the manner in which they are breathing, how very invested they seem to be in the moment. “And - if I were to pull away at the last moment -? On your chest, perhaps?”
And Denmark moans outright, then.
France brings his thumb to Denmark’s mouth and keeps talking, about how the weight of him would feel against Denmark’s tongue, about the paint smeared over cheekbones, jawline, chin - about the dirt underneath - about anything, anything at all - for he knows he can paint suitable pictures with words, however staggeringly they are uttered - Denmark’s increasingly hurried motions are merely a testament to how it affects him.
Increasingly rough motions, increasingly fast motions, and France only encourages it, watching as the muscles and bones of Denmark’s torso move further, below paint, below dirt, all of it only made more impressive by the filth. The hand at Denmark’s face moves of its own accord, skirting over his neck, tight and corded, over his chest, heaving underneath and wet from many things, over his face, bone structure illuminated and shadowed simultaneously.
France isn’t aware of his breathing, but surely it matches Denmark’s - fast, desperate as their bodies meet, arch, keen, against one another - alternately coming through nose, open mouth, any manner at all.
His fingers press down against Denmark’s lower lip, and Denmark takes them in, nips the ends. France swears and murmurs something, low, French, he does not know, precisely. However, the result is Denmark’s groan, which echoes around the walls, the ceilings, over the lamplight buzz and hum - his harsh buck and thrust up - a good one, France groans as well - Denmark’s muscles spasm under their raggedly-applied cover, and he curves his neck at a nearly unnatural angle.
France murmurs at that - dirt, rose flush, lines, blood, bones, sinew, all available in one sharp image - Denmark calls out and finishes within him. A few twitching thrusts, and France ensures that every last motion counts. Then Denmark flops, boneless and breathless, against the floor.
Denmark pulls out, eyes glazed, countenance dazed, as he steadies his breathing. France allows it, though his own breathing is rapid and doesn’t calm along with his partner’s - he reaches over to light a cigarette in the meantime, needing something, anything to do, some form of release - it lights, flares to life, burning bright before smoke spills out and pale-as-death ashes form at the tip. He can’t keep his breath steady enough to gain much from it, but is content to watch it burn all the same. Ashes gather at the end while Denmark recovers below, and fall, spinning, spiraling, down - fall and stick, settling themselves among the colored lines covering Denmark’s chest.
France smokes and watches as the ashes spiral down with each light tap - quick movements, miniature dance - of his fingers. The ashes have their own dance, and it is much more elegant than his. The urge to - to push against it all, be a part of it - it almost overwhelms.
The difference between France’s angular motions of flesh and bone, and those of soft, floating ash, landing and sticking where it may - France swallows and grips the cigarette tighter, almost bending it, unknowingly.
Denmark barely raises his hand, twitches his fingers, and France obliges him - one deep inhale and it handed back, Denmark’s arm flopping to the floor with a loud thud. The light rain of ash continues as Denmark closes his eyes - France cannot resist and uses one hand to idly smear the colors - not color, precisely, it’s monochrome, but then again the Impressionists had something to say about that, did they not? The motion, the textures, heat of flesh through paint - it makes him impatient to continue. Yet Denmark is still out of it, silly smile and unmoving hands on his hips. France closes his own eyes, but instead of the expected calm darkness brings, he’s only reminded of the embellishments upon Denmark’s chest. Only alerted to sounds, smells, feeling of Denmark’s prone form, soft yet solid, beneath his own trembling thighs.
The cigarette is moved from his lips - it isn’t helping, not in the least - and suddenly Denmark’s hands upon his hips tighten as he and pulls France forward with a huff of laughter. France gasps as the cigarette flies from his hand, still lit, only halfway diminished. Denmark twists and grabs it, wrapping the other arm around him as he draws him down, toward his face, toward that - that smile.
Shaking arms bracing his weight over Denmark’s head, his arousal just centimeters away from - he is so close, in a multitude of ways. France groans and pulls back a bit, despite all urges to push forward, close that gap - Denmark grins and locks his arm, keeping France there - brings the cigarette to his lips and smirks around it.
“You’re - you are doing this on purpose, no?” France grits out, sounding breathless and somewhat desperate even to his own ears.
Denmark grins wider, inhales, eyes crinkling up at him. “Psh, yeah,” he mutters around the filter, and somehow manages to sound breathless, enthusiastic, mischievous, and well-sexed all at once.
“You - you, dear, are simply -” Denmark tosses the finished cigarette to the side, twists his neck to exhale - “terrible.”
Denmark chuckles, turns back, and brings France’s hips closer, tonguing the tip of his erection - oh, and urge to jerk into that, France just barely holds back - before he presses his mouth flush, fully, and mutters “Hey, yer into it,” still with a grin.
“I am - “ and here, of course, is where Denmark takes him entirely into his mouth, before he can inform him that while yes, he does appreciate a decent tease - but honestly! -
He groans and rakes his fingers through Denmark’s hair, barely possessing the wherewithal to not indulge in such a crude act as - as face-fucking, surely - Denmark does not seem to care, and pulls him in further, deeper.
A low noise he belatedly realizes is from himself, and Denmark, with those hands of his, pulls him back out.
“If ya wanna,” he breathes.
“If you would stop teasing - “
Denmark pulls him back and nearly suckles at him, if such a word were to be used for a sex act, but regardless France cannot think of that now, not with those bruised and painted lips upon him, those still-clear eyes looking up at him from the dirt and pitch surrounding them. Denmark brings a hand up as he does so and strokes him, mutters “‘M not,” against his flesh, exaggerating the sounds.
Finally leans away, hand still working and slick between them. “Do watcha you want,” he grins, hand working harder, surer now.
So close, and he’s imagining, already, sticky white upon smooth black, haphazardly deposited - makes an unseemly sound at the thought.
“M’already a mess,” Denmark goads, and takes a hand from France’s hip to slide them both down his neck, across his pulse and the strength and heat of him, the same heat that keeps the paint wet, the same grit that they all came from and are capable of -
France keens and nearly shuts his eyes at the sensation, but he simply cannot, not now, though Denmark does even as he continues his motions; hot, sticky strands of white marring the black, mixing in and sliding down, and as he comes he hastily swipes a hand through it, feeling hot and cold, smooth and rough, black and white...
All of the opposing forces that somehow come together onto one canvas and make them who they are, and it was marvelous.