Yay more fanfiction~
Title: Lacing
Author: Me
Characters/Pairings: England/France
Rating: T
Warnings: Piercings, slash (obviously)
Summary: ...there's Arthur and Francis. And corset piercings.
Arthur's room reeked of a combination of Earl Grey, rum, and something sharp and unpleasant that could have been hair dye. That last one would certainly explain the canister only half-hidden under the bed, and answer the question of why England suddenly had acid green streaks running through his choppy hair. The decor looked like something straight out of the Victorian era, if the Victorian era had been big on precarious towers of CD cases stacked in the corner. At least half the contents of the open wardrobe didn't exactly fit in with the apparent theme either. Apparently Arthur didn't so much change with the times as throw new things in on top of the old. The overall effect was one that made Francis feel exceedingly out of place, which was not something he was used to feeling in bedrooms, even when he was.
Fortunately, there was something to distract from the room's disconcerting atmosphere. It's occupant. England was... in a state. Francis had thought he'd known what to expect when a half-drunk Arthur had called him over to "give him a hand with something", though obviously his first guess had been wishful thinking rather than a working theory. Still, this side of the Englishman wasn't one that was often allowed to show. In fact, it was widely believed to be a phase which had passed quite a while ago, a brief, past deviation from Arthur's normally strict attempts at appearing the perfect and invincible English gentleman. His occasional relapses were a secret known only to Arthur himself, and Francis, and the only reason Francis kept this secret (and had been entrusted with it in the first place) was that, frankly, they'd collected so much dirt on one another over the years that neither was willing to let anything slip for fear of all the skeletons that might end up being dragged out of various closets. Thus, what Francis affectionately referred to as England's "Little Episodes" remained private, and that was how Arthur preferred it. Looking at the other Nation now, Francis thought he could understand why.
The bars formed two rows down his back, perfectly even of course; England wouldn't have settled for anything less. There were twenty in total. The Nation lay draped over his bed, dressed in a pair of tattered black jeans and combat boots, his chin resting on folded arms. Francis found it hard to remember what he was supposed to be doing as his eyes followed the delicate curve of the smaller man's exposed back. England's shoulders twitched impatiently, and France was fascinated by the muscles shifting visibly under pale skin. He couldn't resist touching it, brushing his fingertips over the jut of a shoulderblade and sliding up towards the shaggy dirty-blond hair at England's nape. France remembered when this skin had been tanned and salty from the sea breeze. It felt like a lifetime ago. It had been several, actually.
"I'd appreciate it if you'd stop being a pervert and get on with it, idiot. I didn't ask you here so that you could feel me up." Arthur's haughty, indignant tone broke the spell, and Francis rolled his eyes. However the Frenchman was not easily put off, and seconds later an impish smile darted across his face as he leaned forward to press lips against the side of England's neck. He was forced to pull back swiftly to avoid the hand that came shooting back to smack at him. Francis chuckled, enjoying the way Arthur's ears burned red as the Englishman tilted his head to glare out of an emerald eye. "Stop that! If you're just going to be an ass then you can bloody well leave."
"So impatient," Francis clicked his tongue disapprovingly, turning away from the bed for a moment to take something from the nightstand. "I'm using the green one. It suits your eyes." The bed dipped as Francis slid onto it, settling himself on his knees at Arthur's side. Experimentally, he ran a finger down the other man's spine, enjoying the way Arthur shivered involuntarily. "And your... hair."
"I honestly don't care," England growled, voice apparently unaffected; he'd always had rather good control in that area. "Just get it over with." He dropped his head onto his forearms again, apparently taking great interest in the wall a few feet in front of him. Francis observed that his ears were still red, but decided against making mention of it. Instead, he set to work with dexterous fingers, weaving smooth material through slender rings.
"Honestly, Angleterre. The things you do to yourself." France's voice was pitched low, enough that the faint whisper of ribbon against metal could be heard over the words. His tone failed to sound as disapproving as he intended, and Arthur replied with a dismissive grunt; highly unattractive. Francis was struck suddenly with the malicious desire to pull the ribbon a little too tight as he crossed it gracefully back and forth. He resisted this, barely, but Arthur must have sensed something, or else he'd developed psychic powers sometime since their last encounter.
"Don't go forgetting, it's not like lacing a real corset," his tone was an unnecessary reprimand, and Francis sighed and reached up to tug on a lock of hair instead, which had Arthur sputtering impotently. He couldn't move to retaliate at the moment, and upon realizing this France shamelessly took advantage of the opportunity to grab a handful of hair and yank. England swearing was by no means an uncommon sound, but France found he never tired of it. "You bleeding wino frog bastard!" Francis could hear England's nails, allowed to grow out for once and painted a rather unimaginative black, digging into the comforter.
"Language, language. You wouldn't want my hands to slip out of shock at your vulgarity, would you?"
"You would never." England snapped, unhesitant, and France chuckled even though this was completely true. He wouldn't. He might tease, or even threaten; he could certainly think about it. Imagine tugging ribbon just a little too tightly, or else giving sharp, deliberate yanks, pulling those little bits of metal out one by one, leaving a bloody connect-the-dots picture on England's back...
Francis finished, and tied the loose ends into a perfect bow, "there." He would never do it.
Arthur pushed himself into a sitting position, and Francis didn't even pretend he wasn't staring when the Englishman glanced over his shoulder. It was beautiful, in a grotesque sort of way. Arthur smirked, no doubt pleased with the reaction he'd drawn.
"You know, I'm going to need someone to take them out later. Corset piercings aren't meant to be permanent."
Author: Me
Characters/Pairings: England/France
Rating: T
Warnings: Piercings, slash (obviously)
Summary: ...there's Arthur and Francis. And corset piercings.
Arthur's room reeked of a combination of Earl Grey, rum, and something sharp and unpleasant that could have been hair dye. That last one would certainly explain the canister only half-hidden under the bed, and answer the question of why England suddenly had acid green streaks running through his choppy hair. The decor looked like something straight out of the Victorian era, if the Victorian era had been big on precarious towers of CD cases stacked in the corner. At least half the contents of the open wardrobe didn't exactly fit in with the apparent theme either. Apparently Arthur didn't so much change with the times as throw new things in on top of the old. The overall effect was one that made Francis feel exceedingly out of place, which was not something he was used to feeling in bedrooms, even when he was.
Fortunately, there was something to distract from the room's disconcerting atmosphere. It's occupant. England was... in a state. Francis had thought he'd known what to expect when a half-drunk Arthur had called him over to "give him a hand with something", though obviously his first guess had been wishful thinking rather than a working theory. Still, this side of the Englishman wasn't one that was often allowed to show. In fact, it was widely believed to be a phase which had passed quite a while ago, a brief, past deviation from Arthur's normally strict attempts at appearing the perfect and invincible English gentleman. His occasional relapses were a secret known only to Arthur himself, and Francis, and the only reason Francis kept this secret (and had been entrusted with it in the first place) was that, frankly, they'd collected so much dirt on one another over the years that neither was willing to let anything slip for fear of all the skeletons that might end up being dragged out of various closets. Thus, what Francis affectionately referred to as England's "Little Episodes" remained private, and that was how Arthur preferred it. Looking at the other Nation now, Francis thought he could understand why.
The bars formed two rows down his back, perfectly even of course; England wouldn't have settled for anything less. There were twenty in total. The Nation lay draped over his bed, dressed in a pair of tattered black jeans and combat boots, his chin resting on folded arms. Francis found it hard to remember what he was supposed to be doing as his eyes followed the delicate curve of the smaller man's exposed back. England's shoulders twitched impatiently, and France was fascinated by the muscles shifting visibly under pale skin. He couldn't resist touching it, brushing his fingertips over the jut of a shoulderblade and sliding up towards the shaggy dirty-blond hair at England's nape. France remembered when this skin had been tanned and salty from the sea breeze. It felt like a lifetime ago. It had been several, actually.
"I'd appreciate it if you'd stop being a pervert and get on with it, idiot. I didn't ask you here so that you could feel me up." Arthur's haughty, indignant tone broke the spell, and Francis rolled his eyes. However the Frenchman was not easily put off, and seconds later an impish smile darted across his face as he leaned forward to press lips against the side of England's neck. He was forced to pull back swiftly to avoid the hand that came shooting back to smack at him. Francis chuckled, enjoying the way Arthur's ears burned red as the Englishman tilted his head to glare out of an emerald eye. "Stop that! If you're just going to be an ass then you can bloody well leave."
"So impatient," Francis clicked his tongue disapprovingly, turning away from the bed for a moment to take something from the nightstand. "I'm using the green one. It suits your eyes." The bed dipped as Francis slid onto it, settling himself on his knees at Arthur's side. Experimentally, he ran a finger down the other man's spine, enjoying the way Arthur shivered involuntarily. "And your... hair."
"I honestly don't care," England growled, voice apparently unaffected; he'd always had rather good control in that area. "Just get it over with." He dropped his head onto his forearms again, apparently taking great interest in the wall a few feet in front of him. Francis observed that his ears were still red, but decided against making mention of it. Instead, he set to work with dexterous fingers, weaving smooth material through slender rings.
"Honestly, Angleterre. The things you do to yourself." France's voice was pitched low, enough that the faint whisper of ribbon against metal could be heard over the words. His tone failed to sound as disapproving as he intended, and Arthur replied with a dismissive grunt; highly unattractive. Francis was struck suddenly with the malicious desire to pull the ribbon a little too tight as he crossed it gracefully back and forth. He resisted this, barely, but Arthur must have sensed something, or else he'd developed psychic powers sometime since their last encounter.
"Don't go forgetting, it's not like lacing a real corset," his tone was an unnecessary reprimand, and Francis sighed and reached up to tug on a lock of hair instead, which had Arthur sputtering impotently. He couldn't move to retaliate at the moment, and upon realizing this France shamelessly took advantage of the opportunity to grab a handful of hair and yank. England swearing was by no means an uncommon sound, but France found he never tired of it. "You bleeding wino frog bastard!" Francis could hear England's nails, allowed to grow out for once and painted a rather unimaginative black, digging into the comforter.
"Language, language. You wouldn't want my hands to slip out of shock at your vulgarity, would you?"
"You would never." England snapped, unhesitant, and France chuckled even though this was completely true. He wouldn't. He might tease, or even threaten; he could certainly think about it. Imagine tugging ribbon just a little too tightly, or else giving sharp, deliberate yanks, pulling those little bits of metal out one by one, leaving a bloody connect-the-dots picture on England's back...
Francis finished, and tied the loose ends into a perfect bow, "there." He would never do it.
Arthur pushed himself into a sitting position, and Francis didn't even pretend he wasn't staring when the Englishman glanced over his shoulder. It was beautiful, in a grotesque sort of way. Arthur smirked, no doubt pleased with the reaction he'd drawn.
"You know, I'm going to need someone to take them out later. Corset piercings aren't meant to be permanent."