[Axis Powers Hetalia] Dare (France/England)
Title: Dare
Author/Artist: Lenarix Klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/England
Rating: R
Warnings: Mild violence, implied rumors about noncon, France and England being terrible people
Summary: France finds out England made out with him because of his reputation. He reacts exactly as you'd expect him to. De-anon from the Kink Meme.
____________________
It started--
Well. He can't exactly remember when it started, when it led up to England's fingers threading through his hair, bared teeth and hissed breaths as France reaches down and cups England's cock.
It was a drink, France thinks, floating in the feel of England's breath on his temple and the fingernails digging into his scalp, no doubt drawing blood. Several drinks ago, probably. He still feels the whiskey's burn inside of him, a faint but present warmth, and the memory of England glaring at him from the corner of his eyes.
A dare.
Maybe.
Was that another day?
"Oi," England says, tugging France's hair, and suddenly he remembers what he's supposed to be doing and snakes his free hand up England's shirt. He's best when he's not thinking, after all--it's been some time since someone's been willing to come to bed with him and let him touch them, so long since he's gotten to practice his most refined art--
"...ey--oi, no--"
France blinks, comes back to himself, and finds the heels of England's hands braced on his chest, shoving, his face turned away. Shit, shit, France thinks, and backs off, hands level with his shoulders as England pants and stares at him with wide eyes. Has it been so long that I'm that out of practice? "What's wrong?"
England blinks at him; France doesn't move, even taking a step back. The silence between them thickens, and France's tongue snakes out of his mouth to lick at his lips. "England?" France asks, lowering his hands and keeping his voice soft. "Angleterre. Are you all right?"
He blinks and seems to come back to himself. It's another second before the puzzling laughter starts, before England ducks his head and presses his hand against the wall.
"I--ah, I'm fine," England says, lifting his head and looking at France, shoulders still slumped. "It's just that America owes me five pounds at the meeting tomorrow."
The air curls with a sour, sickening note. France's stomach clenches. "I--don't understand," France says, and his tongue feels numb and swollen in his throat.
"He thought--well," England starts the smile fading a bit from his face. "He thought--well, you know, you being--well, you--that you just couldn't take no for an answer." England's hand slides from his pocket, a little flush spreading across his cheeks that has nothing to do with his warm house and the cold air they just stumbled out of. "I told him he'd be daft to believe that. I mean, yes, you're you, but looking at your war record you're not exactly--"
England's hand catches on something; it tumbles from his pocket to the floor beside him. France, foxlike in his quickness, the edges of his vision darkening, reaches out and snatches it from the ground. England, face falling, watches as France holds out the handle in one hand, fingers running along the etched steel.
A flick of his wrist, and that handle extends into an extra four inches. A sharpened edge gleams in the lamplight coming outside.
"Apparently, part of you believed him," France says. He is surprised that frost does not spread over his window panes when he speaks--surprised it has not done this the many, many times he's had this conversation with other Nations who have seduced him just to see if the rumors are true.
England says nothing; his shoulders slump again. For a brief moment, he looks helpless, uncertain, looking between France and the blade. His mouth works, but no words come out.
"Well then." France says, and the arousal in his blood turns to ice as he pockets the knife. "Goodnight, Arthur."
He turns and walks into the kitchen, flicking on the light behind him. Arthur trails behind him, and it doesn't take long for the words to start.
"France, don't--don't be a prat, you know me too well--"
He ducks down, opens the refrigerator, and pulls something out. It's colorful and bright--an apple. Hefting it in one hand, he takes out the knife and walks to the counter.
"--it was a stupid bet, you can't really believe--I mean, we haven't since Napoleon, we don't have that kind of relationship! You hate me!"
It takes a moment to find the right angle, but France is pleased when he turns the apple and the skin comes off in a single, shining ribbon. England knows how to pick his knives, after all.
"Francis--"
A palm on his shoulder, and France sees red. The apple falls from his hand, and he turns, swinging his arm in a wide, practiced arc. He meets England's gaze, takes in his wide eyes and parted lips, still plump from where he bit them moments ago.
Blood starts seeping from a long cut just below England's right eye. Without breaking their gaze, England reaches up as it starts to drip down his cheek.
"You are on my property without my permission," France says, his tone giving him goosebumps. "If you insist on staying, I will use force to subdue you. And then I shall call the police to deal with you." He pauses. "I'd rather not do that."
"France..."
"Goodnight, England. You know where the door is. Or would you like me to escort you out?" He brandishes the knife between them, a silent threat.
England blinks at him, and there's something thick and shining beading in England's eyes. He finally surrenders, shaking his head and turning away. France doesn't move; he stands there, knife at the ready, listening to the sounds of England's murmurs rather than the words. He stays that way until he hears the front door click shut.
Every muscle in France's body sings to tear flesh and blood, to skin sinew from bone. He wants to scream and thrash and cut.
He does none of these things, instead retreating to the refrigerator and taking a bottle of Grey Goose, and plans out the coming day.
Tomorrow, he will be late to the meeting and too drunk to care. He will hang on England, rub his nipples, and nibble at the spot on his neck that causes that delightful blush. He will persist, even if England says no. He will keep the knife close and hidden, and if England fights back--
Well.
Tomorrow will handle itself.
For now, France sits on his couch, wrapped in the pitch-dark silence of midnight. He feels a sob well up in his chest.
He silences it by tilting back the bottle and letting vodka's burning kiss splash the back of his throat.
____________________
Notes: So hi. It's been a while. Haven't posted here publicly for a while and decided it's time to change that.
Anon comments are on. Don't give me a reason to disable it.
Concrit is highly encouraged. Be as brutal as you'd like in tearing this apart. Thanks for reading.
Author/Artist: Lenarix Klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): France/England
Rating: R
Warnings: Mild violence, implied rumors about noncon, France and England being terrible people
Summary: France finds out England made out with him because of his reputation. He reacts exactly as you'd expect him to. De-anon from the Kink Meme.
____________________
It started--
Well. He can't exactly remember when it started, when it led up to England's fingers threading through his hair, bared teeth and hissed breaths as France reaches down and cups England's cock.
It was a drink, France thinks, floating in the feel of England's breath on his temple and the fingernails digging into his scalp, no doubt drawing blood. Several drinks ago, probably. He still feels the whiskey's burn inside of him, a faint but present warmth, and the memory of England glaring at him from the corner of his eyes.
A dare.
Maybe.
Was that another day?
"Oi," England says, tugging France's hair, and suddenly he remembers what he's supposed to be doing and snakes his free hand up England's shirt. He's best when he's not thinking, after all--it's been some time since someone's been willing to come to bed with him and let him touch them, so long since he's gotten to practice his most refined art--
"...ey--oi, no--"
France blinks, comes back to himself, and finds the heels of England's hands braced on his chest, shoving, his face turned away. Shit, shit, France thinks, and backs off, hands level with his shoulders as England pants and stares at him with wide eyes. Has it been so long that I'm that out of practice? "What's wrong?"
England blinks at him; France doesn't move, even taking a step back. The silence between them thickens, and France's tongue snakes out of his mouth to lick at his lips. "England?" France asks, lowering his hands and keeping his voice soft. "Angleterre. Are you all right?"
He blinks and seems to come back to himself. It's another second before the puzzling laughter starts, before England ducks his head and presses his hand against the wall.
"I--ah, I'm fine," England says, lifting his head and looking at France, shoulders still slumped. "It's just that America owes me five pounds at the meeting tomorrow."
The air curls with a sour, sickening note. France's stomach clenches. "I--don't understand," France says, and his tongue feels numb and swollen in his throat.
"He thought--well," England starts the smile fading a bit from his face. "He thought--well, you know, you being--well, you--that you just couldn't take no for an answer." England's hand slides from his pocket, a little flush spreading across his cheeks that has nothing to do with his warm house and the cold air they just stumbled out of. "I told him he'd be daft to believe that. I mean, yes, you're you, but looking at your war record you're not exactly--"
England's hand catches on something; it tumbles from his pocket to the floor beside him. France, foxlike in his quickness, the edges of his vision darkening, reaches out and snatches it from the ground. England, face falling, watches as France holds out the handle in one hand, fingers running along the etched steel.
A flick of his wrist, and that handle extends into an extra four inches. A sharpened edge gleams in the lamplight coming outside.
"Apparently, part of you believed him," France says. He is surprised that frost does not spread over his window panes when he speaks--surprised it has not done this the many, many times he's had this conversation with other Nations who have seduced him just to see if the rumors are true.
England says nothing; his shoulders slump again. For a brief moment, he looks helpless, uncertain, looking between France and the blade. His mouth works, but no words come out.
"Well then." France says, and the arousal in his blood turns to ice as he pockets the knife. "Goodnight, Arthur."
He turns and walks into the kitchen, flicking on the light behind him. Arthur trails behind him, and it doesn't take long for the words to start.
"France, don't--don't be a prat, you know me too well--"
He ducks down, opens the refrigerator, and pulls something out. It's colorful and bright--an apple. Hefting it in one hand, he takes out the knife and walks to the counter.
"--it was a stupid bet, you can't really believe--I mean, we haven't since Napoleon, we don't have that kind of relationship! You hate me!"
It takes a moment to find the right angle, but France is pleased when he turns the apple and the skin comes off in a single, shining ribbon. England knows how to pick his knives, after all.
"Francis--"
A palm on his shoulder, and France sees red. The apple falls from his hand, and he turns, swinging his arm in a wide, practiced arc. He meets England's gaze, takes in his wide eyes and parted lips, still plump from where he bit them moments ago.
Blood starts seeping from a long cut just below England's right eye. Without breaking their gaze, England reaches up as it starts to drip down his cheek.
"You are on my property without my permission," France says, his tone giving him goosebumps. "If you insist on staying, I will use force to subdue you. And then I shall call the police to deal with you." He pauses. "I'd rather not do that."
"France..."
"Goodnight, England. You know where the door is. Or would you like me to escort you out?" He brandishes the knife between them, a silent threat.
England blinks at him, and there's something thick and shining beading in England's eyes. He finally surrenders, shaking his head and turning away. France doesn't move; he stands there, knife at the ready, listening to the sounds of England's murmurs rather than the words. He stays that way until he hears the front door click shut.
Every muscle in France's body sings to tear flesh and blood, to skin sinew from bone. He wants to scream and thrash and cut.
He does none of these things, instead retreating to the refrigerator and taking a bottle of Grey Goose, and plans out the coming day.
Tomorrow, he will be late to the meeting and too drunk to care. He will hang on England, rub his nipples, and nibble at the spot on his neck that causes that delightful blush. He will persist, even if England says no. He will keep the knife close and hidden, and if England fights back--
Well.
Tomorrow will handle itself.
For now, France sits on his couch, wrapped in the pitch-dark silence of midnight. He feels a sob well up in his chest.
He silences it by tilting back the bottle and letting vodka's burning kiss splash the back of his throat.
____________________
Notes: So hi. It's been a while. Haven't posted here publicly for a while and decided it's time to change that.
Anon comments are on. Don't give me a reason to disable it.
Concrit is highly encouraged. Be as brutal as you'd like in tearing this apart. Thanks for reading.