[fic] Blood on Blood
Title: Blood on Blood
Author: etre_sans_age
Rating: R/NC-17/I don't fucking know
Characters: Belarus/France
Warnings: bloodplay
Wordcount: 865
Summary: Reposted from the kink meme. For the prompt - Belarus/France - More dominance than France can handle. Creepy Belarus outcreeping France.
He thought this might be the first time he had ever been forced to have sex at knifepoint.
A gorgeous nude young woman had pinned him to the bed, one delicate doll-like hand gripping his manhood with impressive strength, the other hand holding a very sharp knife that traced down the skin of his thigh, slowly and deliberately. Trying his best to not move suddenly lest he get horrifically castrated, he looked up into her storm-blue eyes. Such a cold and unhappy gaze, he thought, but what else would one expect from a land like hers…
“What do you want?” he whispered, breathing shallowly. Her damp hand on his cock moved, just a little, and he almost shuddered at the stimulation, fear multiplying every sensation a hundredfold.
“I want… what you gave my brother. Give it to me.”
He thought about her words, using the few brain cells that were not completely zoned in on what was happening between his legs, and could not come up with anything other than ‘failed invasion’ and possibly ‘culture,’ which he figured she did not want at the moment. “Ah, could you explain what you mean?”
At this, she scowled fiercely, and he almost hissed at the sudden vice-like force on his most precious of organs.
“He spoke of you once. Fondly. Though I don’t know what he sees in you… you do have a reputation.” Clipped words, almost monotone voice. So like a doll… well, a doll with a knife at his crotch.
“Perhaps I can assist you better if you would kindly move your knife, ma cherie?” Act calm, and she will stay calm, he hoped.
The girl smiled, possibly, mostly teeth, no warmth or empathy, and he felt her hand leave his cock, heard the knife tossed onto the carpeted floor. Getting up on one elbow, he smiled as charmingly and as reassuringly as he could through the veil of his tangled hair. Though she seemed practically unaffected, but for the faintest hint of rose upon her cheeks.
And it was proof enough; he knew what she wanted, even if she did not know how to ask for it.
No, he was not her brother, but he was once adored by that man, and she sought some semblance of that affection, even second-hand and sullied, enough to follow him back to his room and break the door knob to get in and then order him to strip with a knife at his throat. He almost laughed at the absurdity of her childish obsession, but he did not allow a trace of amusement to show on his face. Women were far more dangerous than men when thwarted in love, he knew that all too well. It would be best to listen and acquiesce, to please, to simply be himself, as he had done so many times before. It was how he kept on living and how he avoided dying.
“At least you don’t look or act like him,” and by the way she said “him,” almost spitting the word, he understood that she did not mean her brother. Ah, yes, he was starting to understand now...
She leaned forward almost curiously, long white-blond hair brushing the skin of his hips and stomach and chest, sending shivers of terror and lust down his spine, though his legs were actually starting to feel numb from her sitting on them. With some effort, he sat up in bed, to feel cold slender arms wrap around his shoulders.
He considered himself a master in the art of love, no one dared challenge him for this title, but nothing of his formidable skill would please this girl, for he was merely playing the part of a cheap substitute here. She wanted something she could not have, could not obtain after decades of trying, and frustration was evident in the set of her jaw, the hostility in her gaze, even as she let him kiss her mouth and run his fingers across her small firm breasts.
Whispered instructions to guide her motions, though his body was not the one she wanted to please. Words of gentle encouragement, despite her long nails dragging across the skin of his back, drawing blood. It was not as if this was the first time he got turned on from pain, and as he squeezed her wrist hard enough to bruise, it seemed that she took it as well as she gave it, her eyes lighting up as terrifying and beautiful as a hurricane at sea.
She shoved him back into the mattress and slid easily onto his long-neglected erection, breathless, eager, slick with exertion and arousal and quite a bit of blood (mostly his, a little bit of hers.) He automatically closed his eyes, partly from a not entirely unfounded fear of being castrated by her cunt somehow, partly from a dull aching feeling that he might have done something very very wrong. But he did not have to look at this broken lonely misguided child, not if he didn't want to, and she did not have to see someone who was not her brother, not if she didn't want to.
All was well, all was well...
Author: etre_sans_age
Rating: R/NC-17/I don't fucking know
Characters: Belarus/France
Warnings: bloodplay
Wordcount: 865
Summary: Reposted from the kink meme. For the prompt - Belarus/France - More dominance than France can handle. Creepy Belarus outcreeping France.
He thought this might be the first time he had ever been forced to have sex at knifepoint.
A gorgeous nude young woman had pinned him to the bed, one delicate doll-like hand gripping his manhood with impressive strength, the other hand holding a very sharp knife that traced down the skin of his thigh, slowly and deliberately. Trying his best to not move suddenly lest he get horrifically castrated, he looked up into her storm-blue eyes. Such a cold and unhappy gaze, he thought, but what else would one expect from a land like hers…
“What do you want?” he whispered, breathing shallowly. Her damp hand on his cock moved, just a little, and he almost shuddered at the stimulation, fear multiplying every sensation a hundredfold.
“I want… what you gave my brother. Give it to me.”
He thought about her words, using the few brain cells that were not completely zoned in on what was happening between his legs, and could not come up with anything other than ‘failed invasion’ and possibly ‘culture,’ which he figured she did not want at the moment. “Ah, could you explain what you mean?”
At this, she scowled fiercely, and he almost hissed at the sudden vice-like force on his most precious of organs.
“He spoke of you once. Fondly. Though I don’t know what he sees in you… you do have a reputation.” Clipped words, almost monotone voice. So like a doll… well, a doll with a knife at his crotch.
“Perhaps I can assist you better if you would kindly move your knife, ma cherie?” Act calm, and she will stay calm, he hoped.
The girl smiled, possibly, mostly teeth, no warmth or empathy, and he felt her hand leave his cock, heard the knife tossed onto the carpeted floor. Getting up on one elbow, he smiled as charmingly and as reassuringly as he could through the veil of his tangled hair. Though she seemed practically unaffected, but for the faintest hint of rose upon her cheeks.
And it was proof enough; he knew what she wanted, even if she did not know how to ask for it.
No, he was not her brother, but he was once adored by that man, and she sought some semblance of that affection, even second-hand and sullied, enough to follow him back to his room and break the door knob to get in and then order him to strip with a knife at his throat. He almost laughed at the absurdity of her childish obsession, but he did not allow a trace of amusement to show on his face. Women were far more dangerous than men when thwarted in love, he knew that all too well. It would be best to listen and acquiesce, to please, to simply be himself, as he had done so many times before. It was how he kept on living and how he avoided dying.
“At least you don’t look or act like him,” and by the way she said “him,” almost spitting the word, he understood that she did not mean her brother. Ah, yes, he was starting to understand now...
She leaned forward almost curiously, long white-blond hair brushing the skin of his hips and stomach and chest, sending shivers of terror and lust down his spine, though his legs were actually starting to feel numb from her sitting on them. With some effort, he sat up in bed, to feel cold slender arms wrap around his shoulders.
He considered himself a master in the art of love, no one dared challenge him for this title, but nothing of his formidable skill would please this girl, for he was merely playing the part of a cheap substitute here. She wanted something she could not have, could not obtain after decades of trying, and frustration was evident in the set of her jaw, the hostility in her gaze, even as she let him kiss her mouth and run his fingers across her small firm breasts.
Whispered instructions to guide her motions, though his body was not the one she wanted to please. Words of gentle encouragement, despite her long nails dragging across the skin of his back, drawing blood. It was not as if this was the first time he got turned on from pain, and as he squeezed her wrist hard enough to bruise, it seemed that she took it as well as she gave it, her eyes lighting up as terrifying and beautiful as a hurricane at sea.
She shoved him back into the mattress and slid easily onto his long-neglected erection, breathless, eager, slick with exertion and arousal and quite a bit of blood (mostly his, a little bit of hers.) He automatically closed his eyes, partly from a not entirely unfounded fear of being castrated by her cunt somehow, partly from a dull aching feeling that he might have done something very very wrong. But he did not have to look at this broken lonely misguided child, not if he didn't want to, and she did not have to see someone who was not her brother, not if she didn't want to.
All was well, all was well...