[Fic] France/England -- Juxtaposition
Title: Juxtaposition
Series: Hetalia, fusion with Harry Potter
Pairing/Characters: France/England, Francis/Arthur
Rating: R
Total length: 742
Warnings: Francis and Arthur as Slytherins, sex in a broom-closet, almost-hate!sex.
Summary: Francis does not make a habit of visiting supply closets. Why would one subject themselves to such torment when there are warm beds to be had and dorm-mates to bribe?
Author's Note: I wrote this months ago for Steve, posted it as comment-fic, and promptly forgot all about it. Which is a shame really, Francis and Arthur make wonderful Slytherins. Because this picture makes me hot. For the record, this was supposed to be them hexing the shit out of each other on top of the dinner table.
.
Francis does not make a habit of visiting supply closets. Other students may find the idea of necking in a dark room surrounded by mops and cobwebs terribly romantic, appealing because it is forbidden, taboo. Necking in broom closets is almost synonymous with school life. They are students, sharing a dormitory with at least three other males their age and really, a silencing spell can only afford so much privacy. It cannot cover up the awkwardness that comes hand in hand with waking up with some pretty thing strewn across your chest and having to worry about sneaking him or her past your sleeping year mates. It doesn't hide the rustling of the curtains or the fact that someone could push past the drapery at any moment.
No, as students it is almost expected of them to frequent the many closets tucked into corners all over the castle. All the same, Francis doesn't quite like them. They are uncomfortable; brooms sticking in awkward places, rags tying themselves about stumbling feet, damp mops brushing up against rumpled robes and leaving awkward wet patches. And there's always a smell, rank and vaguely of mildew. Why would one subject themselves to such torment when there are warm beds to be had and dorm-mates to bribe?
He does, however, make an exception for the annoyed blond whose heels are currently tangled at the back of his robes, ankles crossed at the dip of his spine.
"Come now, Angleterre, you cannot possibly believe that-"
Green eyes narrow and teeth dig into his lower lip, something that he supposes could possibly be called a kiss. If one squinted, perhaps. The words die in his throat.
It isn't so much that Kirkland is special. Really, he's anything but. He is irritating, stuck up, and frankly, his ego astounds Francis. Politeness only goes so far when the other is as pigheaded as Kirkland is.
What Kirkland is, is an utter cocktease. It is almost an art, the way he will smirk over his shoulder when he manages a higher score than Francis. The way he glares and hisses and spits but also manages almost feral grins whenever Francis passes him by. The way he always manages to stretch just so, his robes gaping open and his sweater riding high on pale hipbones. The way he always manages to drop his wand just past Francis' desk, bending at the waist and always smirking when he catches Francis looking.
He makes a good show of stammering it up in front of that Gryffindor friend of his, of smiling kindly and showing the pleasant dark haired Ravenclaw girl in their year how to properly draw up complex pentacles. He puts up such an excellent act that people often wonder why his tie is green.
But Francis knows. The rest of Slytherin knows.
Which is why Francis lets himself get pulled along into this strange game of theirs. Why they can't quite keep their hands off each other.
Kirkland tastes like blood, lip still split and bleeding sluggishly from the punch Francis had thrown earlier, before he'd grinned and tugged Kirkland into the room just as the teachers came running. Before Kirkland had pressed Francis back against the masonry, breathing curses into his ear as he licked a wet path up his neck.
It's always like this with them. Fight, fight, fuck. Fight, fight, hex each other half to death and once all the warts and tentacles and foliage has been cleared away, fuck.
He can't exactly say he minds. After two years of this, he's grown rather fond of it. So it's easy to bite his way back down Kirkland's neck, easy to let Kirkland fuck back onto his cock, his breath leaving sparks in the air. It's easy, so very easy to ignore the mess and the damp and the darkness and focus on pale skin and bright eyes. Easy to lean forward and lick suddenly chapped lips, to swallow down the dryness of his throat and tug Kirkland's ear lobe between his teeth. Easy to smirk and hiss, "Come for me, cheri."
And it is very, very, rewarding to watch Kirkland's throat work to swallow a moan when he comes messily between them.
It is also rather easy to follow along after.
Series: Hetalia, fusion with Harry Potter
Pairing/Characters: France/England, Francis/Arthur
Rating: R
Total length: 742
Warnings: Francis and Arthur as Slytherins, sex in a broom-closet, almost-hate!sex.
Summary: Francis does not make a habit of visiting supply closets. Why would one subject themselves to such torment when there are warm beds to be had and dorm-mates to bribe?
Author's Note: I wrote this months ago for Steve, posted it as comment-fic, and promptly forgot all about it. Which is a shame really, Francis and Arthur make wonderful Slytherins. Because this picture makes me hot. For the record, this was supposed to be them hexing the shit out of each other on top of the dinner table.
.
Francis does not make a habit of visiting supply closets. Other students may find the idea of necking in a dark room surrounded by mops and cobwebs terribly romantic, appealing because it is forbidden, taboo. Necking in broom closets is almost synonymous with school life. They are students, sharing a dormitory with at least three other males their age and really, a silencing spell can only afford so much privacy. It cannot cover up the awkwardness that comes hand in hand with waking up with some pretty thing strewn across your chest and having to worry about sneaking him or her past your sleeping year mates. It doesn't hide the rustling of the curtains or the fact that someone could push past the drapery at any moment.
No, as students it is almost expected of them to frequent the many closets tucked into corners all over the castle. All the same, Francis doesn't quite like them. They are uncomfortable; brooms sticking in awkward places, rags tying themselves about stumbling feet, damp mops brushing up against rumpled robes and leaving awkward wet patches. And there's always a smell, rank and vaguely of mildew. Why would one subject themselves to such torment when there are warm beds to be had and dorm-mates to bribe?
He does, however, make an exception for the annoyed blond whose heels are currently tangled at the back of his robes, ankles crossed at the dip of his spine.
"Come now, Angleterre, you cannot possibly believe that-"
Green eyes narrow and teeth dig into his lower lip, something that he supposes could possibly be called a kiss. If one squinted, perhaps. The words die in his throat.
It isn't so much that Kirkland is special. Really, he's anything but. He is irritating, stuck up, and frankly, his ego astounds Francis. Politeness only goes so far when the other is as pigheaded as Kirkland is.
What Kirkland is, is an utter cocktease. It is almost an art, the way he will smirk over his shoulder when he manages a higher score than Francis. The way he glares and hisses and spits but also manages almost feral grins whenever Francis passes him by. The way he always manages to stretch just so, his robes gaping open and his sweater riding high on pale hipbones. The way he always manages to drop his wand just past Francis' desk, bending at the waist and always smirking when he catches Francis looking.
He makes a good show of stammering it up in front of that Gryffindor friend of his, of smiling kindly and showing the pleasant dark haired Ravenclaw girl in their year how to properly draw up complex pentacles. He puts up such an excellent act that people often wonder why his tie is green.
But Francis knows. The rest of Slytherin knows.
Which is why Francis lets himself get pulled along into this strange game of theirs. Why they can't quite keep their hands off each other.
Kirkland tastes like blood, lip still split and bleeding sluggishly from the punch Francis had thrown earlier, before he'd grinned and tugged Kirkland into the room just as the teachers came running. Before Kirkland had pressed Francis back against the masonry, breathing curses into his ear as he licked a wet path up his neck.
It's always like this with them. Fight, fight, fuck. Fight, fight, hex each other half to death and once all the warts and tentacles and foliage has been cleared away, fuck.
He can't exactly say he minds. After two years of this, he's grown rather fond of it. So it's easy to bite his way back down Kirkland's neck, easy to let Kirkland fuck back onto his cock, his breath leaving sparks in the air. It's easy, so very easy to ignore the mess and the damp and the darkness and focus on pale skin and bright eyes. Easy to lean forward and lick suddenly chapped lips, to swallow down the dryness of his throat and tug Kirkland's ear lobe between his teeth. Easy to smirk and hiss, "Come for me, cheri."
And it is very, very, rewarding to watch Kirkland's throat work to swallow a moan when he comes messily between them.
It is also rather easy to follow along after.