[gift exchange fic/art] Message
Title: Message
Recipient: parttime_job
Request: "France and England in a relationship mostly defined by sexual activity, excessive snarking, sleepovers, and mutual extortion. Yes, they are using each other.
...Except, like, one of them has genuine romantic feelings, which are kept too subtle or shown via enigmatic messages or gestures, for the other while this other is all in it for the benefits and nothing more."
Characters: France, England
Rating: PG-13/R
Warnings: innuendo, angst, language, implied sex
Notes: ...I got a really sad request for Christmas, so I did my best to make it slightly enjoyable. I included both a fic and some art, and I hope you find at least one of them to your liking. Merry late Christmas and a happy New Year's, parttime_job~
It had been over a thousand years since they first locked eyes from across the channel, and other than a few blips throughout the centuries of what may be termed as “alliances” by more ignorant persons, it was mutual loathing from the start. Their antagonism lost some steam after a few centuries of constant warring, but if England ever wanted to start a fight over something ridiculously petty, France was always more than happy to oblige him.
And if the fights should eventually, somehow, lead to another sort of physical exertion, the type more often played out in bed, France would never refuse, on the grounds that refusal of that sort would be no better than admitting defeat, which of course, he never did… if he could help it. As for England, he must surely be content with this state of affairs, for he would always express his disapproval, in no uncertain terms, whenever anyone else decided to beat up France or insult France or even look at him in anything other than the most professional of manners.
But sometimes, after another night of heated arguing and even fiercer sex, one would lie awake in the darkness, wondering about what might have been.
In the dreams, they were lovers in love. Instead of blood-letting and death threats, there were tokens of affection and whispered endearments. Every moment spent together was heaven, and when separated, every cell of their bodies, down to the tiniest mitochondrion, longed for the other’s presence. Perhaps there were still scuffles, but they always made up afterwards, and their understanding for each other thus matured like fine wine or cheese.
But those were only dreams, fantasies spun of moonbeams and fairy songs and other pretty metaphors that England’s authors invented, never to become reality. This was their reality, a constant enmity broken up only by periods of mutual extortion in the guise of cooperation, a never-ending effort to either get ahead or at least keep the other one down.
It made him feel a little sad. He thought he would have made a very fine Roquefort.
“What? Are you still up?” England snuffled drowsily and flopped onto his other side, seeking the cool, untouched side of the pillow.
“Oui, it is hard to get any rest after confronting your monstrous eyebrows,” France murmured, poking England’s forehead with unusual fondness.
He was promptly smacked on the shoulder. “Go back to sleep, frog, ‘m tired.”
There was a brief awkward silence, and England could not quite get rid of the notion that France was watching him even though it was too dark to see anything clearly.
“Would you like me to give you a message?” France asked, his voice so soft England had to edge forward to hear him, and even then, he was not sure he heard right.
“…You mean a massage, right?”
“Yes.” France smiled, or possibly leered. “That is what I meant. A massage, you certainly need one.”
“And what do you want in return?” England countered warily, for France never offered something without a payment in mind.
The other nation closed his eyes, the smile disappearing for a moment before returning in its usual perverse glory. “The usual, Angleterre, the usual.”
“Of course.” Another pause, to consider if he would be losing any advantage in this. “All right, then.”
Lying on his stomach, England held back a curse as France pulled away the covers, exposing their naked selves to the cool air. He grumbled in impatience while France scrabbled around for something on the bedside table and so was caught off guard when France placed a warm kiss on the base of his neck, on the vertebrae between his shoulder blades, with a muffled whisper.
“Mmmf, what did you just say?”
“Nothing you have not heard before, mon cher.” Though perhaps he meant it this time.
France poured out some of the warming massage oil onto his hands, and with the tip of his finger, traced fanciful sweet confessions over the skin of England’s back, where the other would never see and never guess. But perhaps the meaning would be absorbed into his skin and blood, a secret straight from one heart to another with no words, no noises, no language barrier to get in the way.
Je t’aime. Je t’adore. I cherish you. I want to be with you---
“Stop, that tickles,” England muttered breathlessly.
“My apologies.” Another kiss, just as tender as the one before. “Shall I start now?”
Not waiting for an answer, France knelt over England’s prone form, straddling his legs, and lightly prodded his back with oiled fingers. Under the twisted scars left from battles past, he could feel muscles still knotted and tense even after their latest activity, which he took note of for next time, because there would be a next time, no matter what they claimed tonight. Then France began to work at the knots in earnest, rubbing and kneading at the tightness with his thumbs and palms, trying to loosen the muscles bit by bit. Other than the occasional grunt, England kept quiet during the process, and he was not sure if he liked that better than the bitter running commentary throughout their, for lack of a more hateful word, fucking.
Finally, England said, “You’re not very good at this, France. I am not feeling any more---”
At which point, France dug the heel of his palm deep into England’s ribcage, putting the majority of his weight onto his hand.
“Ack! Ow, fuck, what the hell?!” England exclaimed, writhing frantically, fingers digging into the sheets.
“Oh, did that hurt?” the other nation asked as he repeated the motion on the right side, with even more vindictiveness.
“Yes! Stop it!” he gasped.
The agony stopped as suddenly as it started and England took a deep shuddering breath.
“But do you feel better now?”
“…Actually… yes, a little.” A shifting of muscles and bones under his palms, sliding into a more relaxed and comfortable position, followed by an exhalation that was almost a sigh. “Do it again...” And even quieter. “Please.”
“As you wish.” But he did not get much further into his “massage” before England abruptly turned over, his cheeks reddened, his gaze dark with need, with desire, and France received the payment that he did not really want.
How pathetic, that every favor England accepted from France had to be accepted painfully, as if there must always be a victim and a perpetrator in their relationship, no matter the situation. Even his stubborn body would not be satisfied with something as simple and intimate as a gentle back massage, and needed to temper pleasure with pain.
Laughing to himself, at himself, France surrendered to England’s demands, knowing his message would never be heard through the static noise of their past.
Just as well. England would have made a terribly bitter wine.
(Now for the art because I am a slightly better artist than I am a writer, which may not be saying much...)
Recipient: parttime_job
Request: "France and England in a relationship mostly defined by sexual activity, excessive snarking, sleepovers, and mutual extortion. Yes, they are using each other.
...Except, like, one of them has genuine romantic feelings, which are kept too subtle or shown via enigmatic messages or gestures, for the other while this other is all in it for the benefits and nothing more."
Characters: France, England
Rating: PG-13/R
Warnings: innuendo, angst, language, implied sex
Notes: ...I got a really sad request for Christmas, so I did my best to make it slightly enjoyable. I included both a fic and some art, and I hope you find at least one of them to your liking. Merry late Christmas and a happy New Year's, parttime_job~
It had been over a thousand years since they first locked eyes from across the channel, and other than a few blips throughout the centuries of what may be termed as “alliances” by more ignorant persons, it was mutual loathing from the start. Their antagonism lost some steam after a few centuries of constant warring, but if England ever wanted to start a fight over something ridiculously petty, France was always more than happy to oblige him.
And if the fights should eventually, somehow, lead to another sort of physical exertion, the type more often played out in bed, France would never refuse, on the grounds that refusal of that sort would be no better than admitting defeat, which of course, he never did… if he could help it. As for England, he must surely be content with this state of affairs, for he would always express his disapproval, in no uncertain terms, whenever anyone else decided to beat up France or insult France or even look at him in anything other than the most professional of manners.
But sometimes, after another night of heated arguing and even fiercer sex, one would lie awake in the darkness, wondering about what might have been.
In the dreams, they were lovers in love. Instead of blood-letting and death threats, there were tokens of affection and whispered endearments. Every moment spent together was heaven, and when separated, every cell of their bodies, down to the tiniest mitochondrion, longed for the other’s presence. Perhaps there were still scuffles, but they always made up afterwards, and their understanding for each other thus matured like fine wine or cheese.
But those were only dreams, fantasies spun of moonbeams and fairy songs and other pretty metaphors that England’s authors invented, never to become reality. This was their reality, a constant enmity broken up only by periods of mutual extortion in the guise of cooperation, a never-ending effort to either get ahead or at least keep the other one down.
It made him feel a little sad. He thought he would have made a very fine Roquefort.
“What? Are you still up?” England snuffled drowsily and flopped onto his other side, seeking the cool, untouched side of the pillow.
“Oui, it is hard to get any rest after confronting your monstrous eyebrows,” France murmured, poking England’s forehead with unusual fondness.
He was promptly smacked on the shoulder. “Go back to sleep, frog, ‘m tired.”
There was a brief awkward silence, and England could not quite get rid of the notion that France was watching him even though it was too dark to see anything clearly.
“Would you like me to give you a message?” France asked, his voice so soft England had to edge forward to hear him, and even then, he was not sure he heard right.
“…You mean a massage, right?”
“Yes.” France smiled, or possibly leered. “That is what I meant. A massage, you certainly need one.”
“And what do you want in return?” England countered warily, for France never offered something without a payment in mind.
The other nation closed his eyes, the smile disappearing for a moment before returning in its usual perverse glory. “The usual, Angleterre, the usual.”
“Of course.” Another pause, to consider if he would be losing any advantage in this. “All right, then.”
Lying on his stomach, England held back a curse as France pulled away the covers, exposing their naked selves to the cool air. He grumbled in impatience while France scrabbled around for something on the bedside table and so was caught off guard when France placed a warm kiss on the base of his neck, on the vertebrae between his shoulder blades, with a muffled whisper.
“Mmmf, what did you just say?”
“Nothing you have not heard before, mon cher.” Though perhaps he meant it this time.
France poured out some of the warming massage oil onto his hands, and with the tip of his finger, traced fanciful sweet confessions over the skin of England’s back, where the other would never see and never guess. But perhaps the meaning would be absorbed into his skin and blood, a secret straight from one heart to another with no words, no noises, no language barrier to get in the way.
Je t’aime. Je t’adore. I cherish you. I want to be with you---
“Stop, that tickles,” England muttered breathlessly.
“My apologies.” Another kiss, just as tender as the one before. “Shall I start now?”
Not waiting for an answer, France knelt over England’s prone form, straddling his legs, and lightly prodded his back with oiled fingers. Under the twisted scars left from battles past, he could feel muscles still knotted and tense even after their latest activity, which he took note of for next time, because there would be a next time, no matter what they claimed tonight. Then France began to work at the knots in earnest, rubbing and kneading at the tightness with his thumbs and palms, trying to loosen the muscles bit by bit. Other than the occasional grunt, England kept quiet during the process, and he was not sure if he liked that better than the bitter running commentary throughout their, for lack of a more hateful word, fucking.
Finally, England said, “You’re not very good at this, France. I am not feeling any more---”
At which point, France dug the heel of his palm deep into England’s ribcage, putting the majority of his weight onto his hand.
“Ack! Ow, fuck, what the hell?!” England exclaimed, writhing frantically, fingers digging into the sheets.
“Oh, did that hurt?” the other nation asked as he repeated the motion on the right side, with even more vindictiveness.
“Yes! Stop it!” he gasped.
The agony stopped as suddenly as it started and England took a deep shuddering breath.
“But do you feel better now?”
“…Actually… yes, a little.” A shifting of muscles and bones under his palms, sliding into a more relaxed and comfortable position, followed by an exhalation that was almost a sigh. “Do it again...” And even quieter. “Please.”
“As you wish.” But he did not get much further into his “massage” before England abruptly turned over, his cheeks reddened, his gaze dark with need, with desire, and France received the payment that he did not really want.
How pathetic, that every favor England accepted from France had to be accepted painfully, as if there must always be a victim and a perpetrator in their relationship, no matter the situation. Even his stubborn body would not be satisfied with something as simple and intimate as a gentle back massage, and needed to temper pleasure with pain.
Laughing to himself, at himself, France surrendered to England’s demands, knowing his message would never be heard through the static noise of their past.
Just as well. England would have made a terribly bitter wine.
(Now for the art because I am a slightly better artist than I am a writer, which may not be saying much...)