[Fic] L'enfer
Delurking by bringing surreal post-modern fic. Merry christmas, ho ho ho.
Title: L'enfer
Author: pulitz
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Vampire!France/fem!England
Rating: Hard R. Or actual NC-17. Not sure.
Warnings: non-con, surrealism liking to be surreal, France, genderbend and AU.
Words: 648
Note: Actually written as an attempt to spite on writer's block's shoes after seeing that jewel of fanart and reading too much Kafka.
Summary: Every night he comes to her, and every night she prays he wouldn't.
L’enfer
c'est les autres.
Moving like a ghost, cold as ice to her touch, he comes to her at night:
He breathes stories into her ears she does not wish to know; runs his hand across the front of her gown; finds the opening and unlaces it, slips his hand under and along the curve of her breasts; cups them, caresses them, squeezes them before his hand trails down the curve of her hips and her waist and down to her thighs and up again; and then his fingers curl around her hair down there and she yelps; she knows what he- and he knows that she knows― and he chuckles, low and dark; presses his lips onto hers; and then there is ice inside her, ice that is not- will not be melting; she screams and trashes and his mouth swallows all her sounds.
And then, when her voice will be tense and hoarse and her breathing ragged, he will bury his face in the crane of her neck, and slur, “Bon repas doit commencer par la faim,” and listen to her panting, fingers still twisting and crooking inside her. It is always like this. Sometimes his teeth scrape over her skin. Sometimes they draw blood, sometimes they don’t.
- she never wants the night to come.
-
“You are most formidable”, he says and his fingers bruise the inside of her thighs in the vain attempt to spread them, but she does not want to spread them, and she will not spread them-
She has to grind her teeth together to keep herself from shrieking out. Fingers. So many. So many, all at once. Something in her twists and it’s not his fingers. She winces, and she hates herself for that. “P-please-“
“Your name,” is all he says, and shoves his fingers deeper into her, bringing his other hand down to her belly, forcing her to lie flat on her back while her hips jerk and jolt, and he buries his fingers- his hand inside her, all the way to his knuckles. “All I want is your name, and if you are so very inclined on denying me that simple request, I will make you bleed. Far more than I already do intend to,” he adds. He is loosing his patience, she realizes. She tilts her head to hide her smile. “England,” she whispers, eventually.
His fingers curl; she hisses. “Liar.”
It hurts. She hurts. He spreads her, digs in her, twists her, and it hurts her. But she will not give in. She will not give away her name. She won’t grant him that power.
She needs a moment to regain her composure, her breath, and she pants heavily when she drawls, as smug as she can manage, “So be it then.”
“Fine,” he says, and stops for a moment, draws his fingers out of her, and then rams them in again, and she hisses and moans and trashes, and he repeats it, again and again and again, until she can no longer think straight, until her head falls from side to side and her body aches and writhes and melts, “so be it then, indeed”, and then he bends down to grab her by the hair and yanks her upwards, and spits in her face. “I will be France, then, England.”
-
She imagines being bitten: a strong hand seizing her throat, crushing her windpipe while she struggles frantically, forcing her to gasp; a mouth covering her own before a cold, quiet voice whispering into her ear, “Night is the other half of life, and the better half, and you are mine, ma chère”; the fear and humiliation of what is to come; and then, finally, her screams.
Is that, she whispers, is that my end?
The vampire looks at her, amused, then mouths: Very much.
She closes her eyes and prays the night will not come tonight.
--
"Night is the other half of life, and the better half" is a quote by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe while Bon repas doit commencer par la faim is a French proverb whose literal meaning is, well, "A good meal must begin with hunger." L'enfer c'est les autres, on the other hand, is borrowed from Satre and his play "No Exit".
Title: L'enfer
Author: pulitz
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Vampire!France/fem!England
Rating: Hard R. Or actual NC-17. Not sure.
Warnings: non-con, surrealism liking to be surreal, France, genderbend and AU.
Words: 648
Note: Actually written as an attempt to spite on writer's block's shoes after seeing that jewel of fanart and reading too much Kafka.
Summary: Every night he comes to her, and every night she prays he wouldn't.
L’enfer
c'est les autres.
Moving like a ghost, cold as ice to her touch, he comes to her at night:
He breathes stories into her ears she does not wish to know; runs his hand across the front of her gown; finds the opening and unlaces it, slips his hand under and along the curve of her breasts; cups them, caresses them, squeezes them before his hand trails down the curve of her hips and her waist and down to her thighs and up again; and then his fingers curl around her hair down there and she yelps; she knows what he- and he knows that she knows― and he chuckles, low and dark; presses his lips onto hers; and then there is ice inside her, ice that is not- will not be melting; she screams and trashes and his mouth swallows all her sounds.
And then, when her voice will be tense and hoarse and her breathing ragged, he will bury his face in the crane of her neck, and slur, “Bon repas doit commencer par la faim,” and listen to her panting, fingers still twisting and crooking inside her. It is always like this. Sometimes his teeth scrape over her skin. Sometimes they draw blood, sometimes they don’t.
- she never wants the night to come.
-
“You are most formidable”, he says and his fingers bruise the inside of her thighs in the vain attempt to spread them, but she does not want to spread them, and she will not spread them-
She has to grind her teeth together to keep herself from shrieking out. Fingers. So many. So many, all at once. Something in her twists and it’s not his fingers. She winces, and she hates herself for that. “P-please-“
“Your name,” is all he says, and shoves his fingers deeper into her, bringing his other hand down to her belly, forcing her to lie flat on her back while her hips jerk and jolt, and he buries his fingers- his hand inside her, all the way to his knuckles. “All I want is your name, and if you are so very inclined on denying me that simple request, I will make you bleed. Far more than I already do intend to,” he adds. He is loosing his patience, she realizes. She tilts her head to hide her smile. “England,” she whispers, eventually.
His fingers curl; she hisses. “Liar.”
It hurts. She hurts. He spreads her, digs in her, twists her, and it hurts her. But she will not give in. She will not give away her name. She won’t grant him that power.
She needs a moment to regain her composure, her breath, and she pants heavily when she drawls, as smug as she can manage, “So be it then.”
“Fine,” he says, and stops for a moment, draws his fingers out of her, and then rams them in again, and she hisses and moans and trashes, and he repeats it, again and again and again, until she can no longer think straight, until her head falls from side to side and her body aches and writhes and melts, “so be it then, indeed”, and then he bends down to grab her by the hair and yanks her upwards, and spits in her face. “I will be France, then, England.”
-
She imagines being bitten: a strong hand seizing her throat, crushing her windpipe while she struggles frantically, forcing her to gasp; a mouth covering her own before a cold, quiet voice whispering into her ear, “Night is the other half of life, and the better half, and you are mine, ma chère”; the fear and humiliation of what is to come; and then, finally, her screams.
Is that, she whispers, is that my end?
The vampire looks at her, amused, then mouths: Very much.
She closes her eyes and prays the night will not come tonight.
--
"Night is the other half of life, and the better half" is a quote by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe while Bon repas doit commencer par la faim is a French proverb whose literal meaning is, well, "A good meal must begin with hunger." L'enfer c'est les autres, on the other hand, is borrowed from Satre and his play "No Exit".