Stuff and two de-anons
Feb. 21st, 2011 11:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
blood_wingedFeeling better. I didn't want to leave that last entry up but thank you to the people who commented. I'm not sure what happened but I've been rather out of sorts for the entire weekend and one last thing just put me over the edge.
Anyway, I'm going to de-anon the two fills I've mentioned, if anyone is interested.
----
Title: Let Me Show You
Pairing: Denmark/Norway
Rating: M
Warnings: Brief bondage, sex
Summary: Denmark is affectionate but rough - Norway teaches the boisterous Dane how to be gentle with him.
“A-Ow-Matia-D-Danmark, stop!”
There was a thud, and the rooster-haired blond moved away from his smaller lover, a pouting expression on his face and one hand lifting to rub his head. Aleksander was glaring at him, a livid red mark in the shape of Matias’ teeth rising just below his collar bone. As much as he loved the way that the Norwegian looked when the shutters were lifted from behind his eyes and the myriad of shifting emotions was revealed in those deep indigos, he didn’t like it when the man shouted at him. He sat back, head cocked to one side and frowning curiously, watching the other as he rubbed his thumb over the mark left on his skin and scowled slightly.
He loved Matias. That couldn’t be denied. He loved the man from the bottom of his heart but he was tired of this. That his lover thought him so attractive that he couldn’t help being overzealous was flattering, but he was beginning to get bruises on top of bruises. If he wasn’t careful somebody was going to accuse Matias of domestic abuse.
“What’s the matter?” the taller man asked, blinking those big blue eyes at him and seeming genuinely confused.
“You are too rough,” Norway snapped. “Stupid Denmark.”
Matias’ expression fell, and for a moment he looked utterly contrite, then he brightened and moved close, pushing his nose against his lover’s and grinning widely. “I don’t mind bein’ stupid so long as ya love me,” he cooed, immediately finding a hand shoved in his face, pushing him away. He rolled, falling onto his back, and that pout returned as Aleksander shifted away from him, frowning.
“We are not doing this anymore.”
“Ah-what? Never? Norge!” The Dane scrambled across the bed and grabbed the younger nation’s wrist, holding on tightly. “Ya can’t- I mean… Norge, that’s unfair!” He didn’t relinquish his grip on the man even as he tugged to get away, and slowly he coaxed him back to the bed and made him sit down, leaning to try and catch his eye. “Ya never complained before,” he whined, tentatively reaching out to pull his slender-bodied lover towards him, only meeting a slight resistance before he was permitted to draw Aleksander against his chest, looping one arm around him. “What am I doin’ wrong?”
“Everything.” The word stung, and Matias flinched, then buried his head against the Norwegian’s shoulder, nosing lightly into his neck. “… Except for that,” Aleksander conceded, lifting a hand to curl it around Matias’ arm. The Dane huffed and repeated the action, but the bite to the man’s ear that followed found him being smacked over the head again as Aleksander wrestled away from him. He shrank a little under the smaller nation’s glare, and looked rather crestfallen as he watched him walk away, only to perk up as he returned a few moments later, the Dane’s red tie held in his hand.
“You like this tie,” he stated. It wasn’t a question, but Matias nodded anyway. “Good, then you will not want to tear it.”
“Eh? Tear it?” Matias leaned back as Aleksander moved onto the bed, one finger pressed to his chest pushing him onto his back. He rolled his shoulders slightly, and Norway kissed him, his lips warm and soft and distracting him nicely as his hands were clasped and drawn up over his head. Nothing amiss was noticed until he realised that he couldn’t pull his arms down again, and he started visibly, eyes widening when Aleksander pulled away. “H-hey, Norge, this is… ahaha, okay, it’s not funny, untie me, yeah?”
“No,” was the low-voiced reply. “I am going to teach you.”
“Teach me?” He squirmed, tugging but not wanting to rip the tie holding him in place, gaze fixed on the Norwegian as he moved his head lower and let out a soft breath over his skin. “T-teach me wha-a-ahaha-Norge what are ya-nnh…”
Aleksander was kissing his chest, warm, open-mouthed kisses against the faintly fluttering skin, the tenderness of it sending curls of heat straight down through his body. He felt himself blush, the heat rising straight to his ears, fists clenching and unclenching as his legs shifted, heels digging into the bed as if trying to gain some kind of purchase on the sheets. Shivering, he let out another whine and nuzzled against the top of Norway’s head as soon as he was able, huffing lightly against his hair.
“You are too rough, min kjære,” Aleksander said, lifting his head to look Denmark in the eyes and marking the uncertainty in them. “And you do not listen.”
Granted, when he got into things he could be a bit heavy-handed but Aleksander had never complained before. Matias grumbled quietly moments before another breath caught in his chest, his lover’s teeth closing around one sensitised nipple and he gasped, twitching. “Ja, j-ja, I get it, look, untie me, c’mon, I-I’ll do it right this time, nnh-Norge, Aleks-”
The Norwegian blond paused, and looked up at the other from under his eyelashes. Matias stared at him for a moment, pulling on the tie again, hearing a couple of the threads snap and wincing at the sound. “Aleks, I don’t… like this.”
“You will listen to me.”
He nodded, and Aleksander moved to release him, dropping the tie beside the bed. Sitting up and rubbing his wrists, Matias could feel his body tingling, and he studied his lover for a moment as if thinking of the best way to approach this new challenge. Matias had always been rough, boisterous – he wanted pleasure and he wanted it now, and that was simply the way that his mind worked. The smaller blond looked back at him steadily, the shutters back behind his eyes, making them dull and almost flat but Matias knew better and he knew not to be deterred by it.
“Kiss me,” Aleksander told him, shifting slightly closer. Matias felt a flicker of uncertainty in his gut, the sudden awareness of the fact that he could get this wrong making him more anxious than he felt he had any right to be as he lifted a hand and brushed his thumb over the barrette in his lover’s hair, then cupped the back of his head and drew him closer, hesitating just short of his lips before pressing his own against them. Slim fingers slid over his shoulder and gripped lightly, closing around the taut muscle. He felt more than heard the faint humming sound that his lover made against his lips and his eyes opened briefly to find closed lids in front of them. Circling his thumb beneath Aleksander’s ear, he tipped his head slightly and his lover’s lips parted in response, allowing him entry and it was already difficult to hold back, but the way that the blond was moving closer and holding onto his shoulder was gratifying and the bigger part of him didn’t want to spoil it.
Drawing back slowly, the Dane let out a slow breath and waited until Aleksander’s eyes opened. Those shutters were gone again, a spark of light in the Norwegian’s eyes as he looked back at his lover. Resting a hand on his thigh, Matias studied his face for signs of approval or otherwise as he slid his fingers higher, feeling the muscle tense under his palm. Aleksander made a low sound of approval, gently tugging and toying with the small hairs at the nape of his lover’s neck, and Matias flashed him a grin.
“Good?” he asked, and the smaller nation nodded, the Dane glowing under the approval and finding some kind of confidence in it. He slipped an arm around the man and paused when the other stiffened, drawing him close when the tension in his body eased and moving to lie him down against the sheets and soft pillows. A hand was touched to his chest and he reached up to clasp it, bringing it to his lips and kissing the tips of his lover’s finger, feeling a kind of glee in the way that it provoked a blush across the Norwegian’s cheeks. “Ya know, Norg-” he began, faltering when Aleksander placed a finger against his lips and shook his head.
“You talk too much,” he murmured, and Matias swallowed, then pressed a kiss to the offending finger and grinned roguishly when it was immediately pulled away. He almost spoke again, but bit his lip instead and kissed Aleksander’s neck, one hand at his hip stroking over the faintly prominent bone. Shifting his lips down he kept himself attentive to the sounds and movements that his lover made, feeling hands clasping on his upper arms, blunt nails digging faintly into his skin as he found the bite mark he had made earlier and kissed it.
The lack of instruction began to make him anxious again and when he had worked his way down to Aleksander’s stomach he looked up, resting his chin lightly just above his navel. His body was reacting in a way that would suggest he was more than enjoying this, but he could never be sure, and it took looking at him to be absolutely certain. Aleksander was beautifully flushed, his lower lip caught between his teeth, and Matias couldn’t help the grin that spread over his face once again at the sight.
“Aleksander,” he uttered, and the Norwegian nation gave a small shiver. “What do I do next?”
Aleksander didn’t speak, but he held out his arms and Matias moved into them, pulling his lover’s small body to him and stroking one hand over the curve of his hip. His free hand was taken and held, and his eyes softened as he watched the younger man move his fingers over the various nicks and tiny scars that he found, nuzzling gently against the digits. They kissed again, slow and sweet, and the Norwegian nation slid one leg up around Matias’ hip, drawing him closer and fisting one hand lightly into his permanently wild hair.
It was… good. Matias could feel his heart thudding in his chest and he was growing more eager by the second, but at the same time he wanted to hear Aleksander make more of those noises, quiet sounds and soft, breathy moans that he’d never heard the man make before. It made him shiver, made his skin feel warm with a kind of kindling fire that he was unused to.
It made him nervous.
“U-um, Norge…” he mumbled. The need to do something was becoming rather urgent now and it was almost embarrassing. Aleksander looked at his face, then down, and then back up, and pushed his forehead against the Dane’s.
“You may continue.”
“Oh good, I just need-” A bottle was pushed into his hand and he blinked, curling his fingers around it, distracted with further kisses as he warmed the contents. It seemed that Aleksander really didn’t want him talking, and he complied as he shifted the man onto his back and uncapped the bottle with one hand, almost dropping it and fumbling for a moment. He heard a noise and realised that Aleksander was chuckling, and he found himself grinning again, parting his lover’s knees and kissing one of them before he slid his hand between them. Fingers clasped around his wrist and he looked up into the other man’s eyes, blinking slowly.
“What-Did I do somethin’?”
“If you are too heavy-handed, we are stopping,” Aleksander warned him. “Go slowly, this is not a race.”
“Slowly,” Matias echoed with a slight whine in his voice. “Okay, I got it.”
He took his time, massaging one slicked fingertip over the tight ring of muscle until he could slide his finger inside easily. Hearing the hissing sound from his lover he stopped, and looked up, rewarded by the sight of the Norwegian grasping the bed sheets hard, his eyes focused so intently upon Matias’ face that he could almost feel them burning through him. Nosing lightly against the smaller man’s knee, he pushed his finger in deep, moving with the shifting of the others hips and searching for a spot he had before only found by accident. He knew the instant he found it. Aleksander’s body seized up for a moment, eyes flashing wide and slightly unfocused. Continuing to pass his fingertip over that spot he did his best to memorise where it was, the feel of it under his finger, almost experimenting with the sensations that he could give the other man.
“Matias.” He heard his name gasped out and looked up inquisitively, his focus broken. “A-another. Be careful.”
The Dane was beginning to enjoy himself immensely. There was something to be said for this ‘slowly’ thing that Aleksander seemed to be so keen on, even if the growing insistent pressure at his groin was beginning to become unbearable. He did as he was asked, pushing a second finger inside, gently pushing and parting his fingers, relishing the high whine that he received in response. One of his lover’s hands ran into his hair, nails scratching gently at his scalp and he let out a low sound not unlike the deep rumble of a big cat, eyelids dipping to half mast. Aleksander was arching, gasping softly, though he still wasn’t making the sounds that Matias loved to hear from him. A third finger moved in when prompted, a fourth, his own need rather urgent now and he couldn’t hold back the sigh of relief when Norway finally nodded his assent for the man to continue. He moved himself over his lover and slid one hand beneath his hips, lifting them up and pushing a pillow beneath them to make the angle easier on both of them.
Not needing to be told to be gentle or slow by now, he cupped the back of Aleksander’s head with one hand and kissed him deeply, his other hand guiding himself to the smaller man’s entrance and then holding his hip as he pushed himself inside. The smaller nation stiffened, tensing for a moment, the initial entrance always difficult with his narrow frame no matter how long Matias took preparing, but he slowly relaxed, swallowing and pushing his fingers through the Danish nation’s hair. He exhaled a slow and shaky breath, scraping his fingernails up Matias’ back and Matias mumbled happily, lowering his head to Aleksander’s shoulder and resting there for a moment. The relief that finally being inside the man had given him was beginning to recede and the urgency to act was rising again, his limbs trembling slightly, and he nuzzled restlessly against his lover’s throat, letting out another of those low rumbling sounds.
“Danmark,” Aleksander murmured, his voice quiet and soft and something in it that made Matias lift his head to look into the smaller man’s deep indigo eyes. He could feel his ears burning, something like embarrassment working through him in a prickling flush.
“Norge, this is weird,” he huffed, feeling Aleksander’s legs shift, his ankles hooking together at the small of his back and his heels pressing in slightly. He moved forwards and heard the answering gasp, felt the faint arch of the smaller man’s body and slipped one hand beneath his back, thumbing against his spine. “Ya.. really like it like this?” Frowning slightly, he watched the other nod once, and he made an uncertain noise. “’S kinda…”
He thought about it, Norway’s fingers stroking through his hair making it hard to maintain coherent thought. Aleksander’s body was small and soft, his hip bones stuck out a little and his ribs showed up under his skin as his chest rose and fell. The light in the room caught on the barrette still secured in his hair and glinted off it, and Matias stroked over it with his thumb, smiling a little at the cooing sound that the action produced.
“’S not so bad,” he conceded quietly, lifting his lover into a kiss and making his first move, slowly, drawing back almost completely before pushing back inside, Aleksander’s hips rising to meet his and a half-choked groan shuddering up from low in his chest. His touch light and almost tentative, he slid his fingers over that brassy barrette once again and slowly unfixed it from the Norwegian nation’s hair, curling his hand closed over it and holding it while the man looked up at him with his eyes slightly widened, his gaze entirely open. He fell into an easy rhythm, the steady push-pull of his hips met by the others, breath faltering to an unsteady panting as Aleksander became more vocal, his voice rising to a volume that was so rarely heard in his everyday speech. Matias slipped both arms around him and held him close, feeling the man’s teeth close lightly on his earlobe and gently tug. He let out a low sound of pleasure and shifted to kiss him, and Aleksander pressed up against him, wrapping slender arms around his shoulders and gripping with thin, pale fingers.
This was familiar, he knew what he was doing now, his movements more assured as he cradled Aleksander against him. His lover’s eyes fell closed and he pressed kisses to the lids, his shoulders hunching as the curling heat low in his abdomen began to draw together. One hand moved between them and wrapped around the Norwegian’s member, the flat of his thumb stroking over the slicked head and down the underside. The brief contact was enough. Aleksander stiffened, tensing, lips parting in a silent cry as he climaxed and spilled between them. He rode his orgasm as Matias moved towards his own, meeting it after several more thrusts into that tight heat and pushing his forehead against the others neck, teeth gritted and a rumbling whine rising in his throat.
He didn’t realise how tightly the smaller man was holding onto him until he let go, and he felt the absence of the warmth against him, looking down at Aleksander’s face as his eyes fluttered open.
“Was that so difficult?” he murmured, drawing Denmark’s hand to his chest and uncurling his fingers, picking up his barrette and fixing it in Matias’ hair. The Danish nation scrunched his nose up slightly and grinned, lifting a hand to touch the barrette and then nuzzling his lover’s cheek.
“I reckon I might be able ta do that more often,” he said, abruptly rolling them so that the smaller man was straddling his hips. Aleksander winced and hissed softly, but said nothing, stroking his fingertips lightly over the others chest. “But only if ya let me be rough with ya sometimes,” he added. “’Cause ya make cute noises.” Rubbing his hands up and down Norway’s thighs, that grin was still on his face as he looked up and watched a slowly darkening blush work its way over the other Nordic’s cheeks. Indigo eyes slanted away and then back, his lips pressing together before he let out a slow breath through his nose and leaned down, the change in position drawing a quiet groan from the both of them.
“I think that I can live with that.”
----
Title: Sun Protection Factor
Pairing: France/Scotland
Rating: U
Warnings: None
Summary: Left alone while visiting Francis in Marseille, a certain Scot becomes bored and goes out to sightsee without putting on sunscreen, with painful results.
He had to hand it to the guy. For as useless as he was he sure had a way with building damn pretty cities. The sun was just touching the horizon, sending sleepy orange light over the buildings and streets of Marseille, and a young man with vivid red hair and green eyes leaned on the balustrade of a balcony three storeys up, eyes faintly narrowed on the view as he finished his first cigarette of the day.
“It’s a damn bonnie place,” he uttered to himself, knowing better than to say such things around Francis for the man was far too proud and compliments always went straight to his head. Taking one last drag he almost flicked the butt out over the rooftops, marking himself a moment later and instead moving to stub it out in the ashtray set atop a nearby table. William rubbed the side of his nose and sniffed, heading back inside though only to retrieve a bottle of scotch and a glass filled with ice, setting them down on the table and tugging off the note stuck to the side of the bottle.
Écosse,
I will be out for the day, so help yourself to anything you need! It is going to be hot today, keep out of the sun or you will spoil your lovely complexion.
À +!
‘Keep out of the sun’. He scrunched the note up in his hand and sent it skittering across the balcony, dropping into a chair and kicking his feet up onto the balustrade, tilting his head back and looking up at the brightening sky. It was already stinging his eyes and he could feel the heat on his skin like something tangible, almost stifling. A hand lifted to push his hair from his face found a faint dampness on his forehead and he let out a low sound of something like disgust, pouring a measure of scotch and knocking it back, immediately filling up the glass again and taking a slow sip.
It was eight in the morning and he was half dying of boredom. Slowly, the temperature rose, the level of alcohol in the bottle dropped, and the amount of clothing that the Scottish nation was wearing began to diminish. Certainly he understood that his French host was busy and he had been warned that the man would not be able to be around during the day, and he really did appreciate (though he hadn’t mentioned it) the fact that Francis was making a six hour round trip by train on the days that he was required to be in Paris, but he was bored. By the time he decided to do something about it, most of the scotch was gone, and he was stripped to his shorts and sandals. The sunlight was creeping over the balcony and his feet were hot, his hair was beginning to stick to his forehead and the back of his neck, and the blue water of the harbour was twinkling oh-so-temptingly barely a mile away.
“Sod thes,” he let out, slamming his glass down with perhaps a little too much force, getting to his feet and leaning out over the balustrade, letting the faint, warm breeze ruffle his hair for a moment. “Ah’mnae stayin’ in haur.”
William left a note on the kitchen table and got out of the apartment as quickly as possible. France’s tastes were rather far removed from his own and while he couldn’t fault that the place was very aesthetically pleasing, it was too white, too clean, he didn’t like it. At least, out on the streets of Marseille he could relax a little in the feeling of being abroad, not feeling quite so out of place as he made his way down the street with his hands pushed into his pockets, the heat of the day beating down on him. It felt better than on the balcony, the light wind drying the sweat on his neck and forehead, carrying the scent of salt in from the bay. At first he kept to the shade, the high buildings on either side of the street making it easy, but as the shade came to a stop and the shining, glittering seafront beckoned he came to a stop, scuffing his foot lightly against the floor.
The first step out into the sunlight was like walking into a wall. He hesitated and almost swayed backwards, drawing in a quick breath through his teeth. “Bleedin’ heel.” Shaking his head, he pressed on, his pace slow and leisurely as he strolled along beside the old port. Stopping at a small café for lunch he sat outside, no doubt looking like a typical tourist as the way that his accent inevitably butchered his attempts at pronouncing French words forced him to simply point at what he wanted.
With a light meal inside him he sat back, sipping at a glass of iced water, and let out a quiet hum. “Weel, thes isnae sae bad.” He didn’t even feel all that hot anymore, though the constant heat was beginning to give him a headache. “Bide it ay th’ sin, eh, Francis? Nae need tae.”
He explored a little more, though eventually his steps began to take him back to Francis’ apartment. Beginning to feel slightly ill, he noticed that his hands were shaking as he tried to push the key in to unlock the door, and silently blamed it on the amount he’d had to drink before going out, moving quickly to bed and deciding that a quick lie down would be just the thing to put him back to normal. It didn’t take him long to realise that there was something rather more wrong than a simple headache and within an hour he was cursing his foolishness of going outdoors without first protecting his damnably sensitive skin. He felt like he was on fire, overheated and near-hyperventilating as his brain made repeated attempts to escape out of every orifice in his head. Shaking and barely able to walk in a straight line he closed the curtains and almost tripped over himself on his way back to bed, tossing and turning as he tried to find some comfortable position to lie in.
When Francis arrived home it was already early evening, and he let out a loud sound of relief as soon as the door closed behind him. Setting his case down he discarded his jacket and tie and tugged at the fabric of his shirt, untucking it from his trousers in an attempt to circulate some air against his skin.
“Écosse!” he called, moving through to the kitchen and opening the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of wine. “Scotland? I am home! Où es-tu?” Tucking his hair behind his ear, Francis ‘hmm’ed softly and left the wine on the kitchen counter, walking to the Scottish nation’s bedroom door and pressing his ear to it. “Écosse? Are you unwell?” A minute later with no answer prompted him to push the door open, finding the room lit dimly with the evening light filtering in through the drawn curtains, and the man that he was looking for lying on the bed, his back to the door, half curled up.
“William?” Francis frowned and tapped his lower lip with one finger, then moved across the room and sat down on the bed. Using one finger, he drew the Scottish nation’s hair away from his face, leaning down slightly. “Écosse…” he repeated, quietly, and the redhead let out a low sound, something close to a groan. He moved towards the elders’ cool touch against his forehead, and Francis huffed a soft breath out through his nose.
“Francis…” the younger man mumbled, stirring and making a grab at the others wrist, missing by several inches. “Francis, Ah dornt feel sae hot.”
“You feel rather hot to me, mon petit…” The literal taking of his words made William groan and he batted at the man, burying his face against the pillow and muttering incoherently. A little urging moved the redhead onto his back and Francis leaned down, pressing their foreheads together, looking into the others eyes as they flickered open, slightly dim and distant.
“Mah heed feels loch… loch…” He couldn’t find an appropriate simile to use and instead fell silent when Francis shook his head and drew back. William ached all over, his skin felt dry and tight but so hot and every movement drew a sound of protest as his body rebelled against it. It was difficult to keep his eyes open even in this low light, but Francis’ hands were so blessedly cool as they moved from his forehead down to his neck and over his chest.
“You have managed to give yourself sunstroke,” he was told, and he let his eyes slide closed. Forget sunstroke. He had been feeling worse and worse since Francis had walked in and now he felt just about ready to curl up and die. It wasn’t that he hadn’t had sunstroke before – with skin like his he couldn’t really avoid it – but it had been a while and the day had been particularly hot. “Did I not warn you not to go out in the sun? Perhaps next time I will tell you to go out and enjoy it and you will stay home, oui?” He sighed, and pushed a hand through his hair. “Mon Dieu. Oui, oui, I suppose I will have to deal with this.”
His hand moved down and in a sudden burst of mental acuity, William’s fingers found his wrist and gripped tightly. “Whit th’ heel ur ye daein’?” he mumbled, unable to raise his voice.
“I am taking off your shorts, and then you are going to come with me and you are going to have a cold shower,” Francis informed him, and for a brief moment the grip on his wrist tightened while William attempted to think that over. Then, he released him and grumbled under his breath, allowing the French nation to tug his shorts off. At least, William thought, the man had the decency to blush.
He was pulled into a sitting position. They were more or less the same height but Scotland was larger in build, and Francis was huffing as he helped him to stand, all but dragging the unsteady younger man to the bathroom and sitting him on the side of the bath. William wouldn’t say that he wasn’t grateful for the concern that he saw in the other man’s eyes, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to complain about it, and he wasn’t too happy about being told to sit in the bottom of the bathtub, either.
“You should become ill more often if this is how docile it makes you,” Francis commented as he reached up to pull the shower head down from the wall.
“That’s... that’s nae..!” he tried to protest but the French nation simply smiled and shook his head and his words died in his throat. William had had a soft spot for the flirt for longer than he could remember, ever since they had allied against his brother England in the early fourteenth century, and though Francis had always played ignorant he was sure that the man knew, and he used the way that he could always disarm the bad-tempered Scottish man to his advantage.
“Enough of that.” Francis was altering the temperature of the water and William could already feel it washing up against his toes. “Lean forwards, rest your head down, come on.” Then the water was running down his back, the temperature sending a chill through his overheated body, and he drew his legs up to hug them to his chest, resting his forehead against his knees. His breathing felt strange, too fast, but the water and Francis’ fingers stroking through his hair was calming and it eased his nerves. Francis was talking to him, but he couldn’t hear him properly over the sound of his heartbeat throbbing in his ears. Fingers touched under his chin and he lifted his head, frowning as his eyes struggled to focus and he tried to hold on to one coherent thought before it squirmed away from him. It was difficult, and Francis wasn’t making it any easier.
Water cascaded over his head and he spluttered, coughing, pain throbbing at his temples, shoulders hunching over and eyes shutting tightly. “Whit th’ heel?!” he demanded, but Francis only let out a soft chuckle and shifted to alter the temperature of the water, a faint chill now rising goosebumps up and down the younger man’s back. Presently, the water was turned off and a towel was wrapped around his shoulders, and he felt like a child as he was helped out of the bath and gently dried off, not even thinking to protest now as his briefs were stripped and the towel was wrapped around his waist. Francis hadn’t looked.
“Ah’mnae docile,” he muttered, hearing a half amused ‘oui, oui’ from Francis but little else besides as he was taken back to bed. Francis pulled a cord to turn on the ceiling fan and the cool shifting of air was like a blessing against his still-damp skin. His fingers clenched on the bed sheets as he tried to think through the fog in his mind, and then Francis’ hands were on him again, strangely calming, placing a cool cloth over his forehead and William heard the faint clink of a glass being put down.
His breathing shuddered and Francis slipped a hand behind his head, lifting him up and putting a cup to his lips. As a rule, Scotland wasn’t a water drinker but he made an exception this time and sipped carefully, coughing as he found swallowing to be slightly painful but managing to drink. His head was laid back down and his hair moved gently from his forehead, and his eyes flickered open, finding it easier this time and watching Francis’ face as he moved to scoop an ice cube from a glass beside the bed, his gaze locked to it as it was touched against his skin. The muscles of his stomach fluttered and he hissed softly, fingers tightening on the bed sheets again.
“Francis,” he said, something quiet and warning in his voice and blue eyes flicked up to meet his. “Ah’m in nae mood fur yer takin’ advantage.”
“Would I do such a thing, mon petit?” Francis sounded hurt and for a moment the Scottish nation felt a flicker of guilt, though it quickly died when he firmly reminded himself just who he was dealing with.
“Ah’m nae sayin’ ye would, but Ah’m nae stranger tae yer charms.”
Francis seemed to be considering this, as he drew the slowly melting cube of frozen water back and forth between the younger man’s hips. William closed his eyes, even though doing so only seemed to heighten the sensations against his skin, and after several minutes had passed, the ice cube running a trail up over his chest to his collar bone, he heard the French nation chuckle. “I think that you know me too well, Écosse,” he stated quietly. The redhead laughed and immediately regretted doing so, but the smile stayed on his lips despite how miserable he felt.
“Do you think that you are able to sleep?” Francis asked then. William thought about it. He couldn’t decide if he felt hot or cold, if the shiver was from the ice still moving over his skin or the older man’s proximity to him, or if he even trusted the French nation enough to allow that kind of vulnerability, but what he did know was that the instant sleep was suggested, half of his brain shut down and the half that was still working was begging him to take the offer. He wet his lips with his tongue and cleared his throat.
“Aye.”
He wasn’t used to sleeping with somebody else, and it was distinctly strange to be so aware of his back resting against somebody else’s chest, feeling the heartbeat of the other man beating against his ribs.
“Ah’mnae sae sure about thes, Francis,” William half mumbled, though he wasn’t allowed much leeway as his head was gently drawn back against the French nation’s shoulder, his forehead being dabbed at lightly with the flannel that had been placed across it earlier.
“Honestly, you are more difficult to handle than Arthur.” He might have made a comment to that, if the cool cloth against his forehead and the way that Francis was resting his free hand over his heart weren’t so very, very distracting. “Just go to sleep, big brother France will take care of you.”
“Yoo're nae mah big brither, that's jist creepy.”
“Sleep,” Francis soothed, and William sighed, doing his best to ignore the fact that he was only dressed in a towel as he tried to fall asleep.
The next thing that he was aware of was waking up, the soft cool sheets pulled up around his hips, and he was alone. He sat up shakily, holding a hand to his head and hating how weak he felt, casting his eyes around the room for any sign that the blond man had been there at all. Small things gave it away – the curtains being slightly open to let in air from the open balcony door, a glass half full of water on the nightstand, a flannel folded beside it. William felt a small smile curve his lips, and he slipped out of bed, pulling on a pair of jeans and poking his head out into the hallway. He could hear his host in the kitchen, singing to himself, and he made his way towards the noise, blue on green as he entered the room.
“Ah, mon petit! I was beginning to think that you would never appear,” Francis laughed, crossing to him and kissing both of his cheeks. “You must be hungry, non? Come, come, sit down.”
He allowed himself to be guided to chair and seated, and watched the other as he busied himself with his cooking, moving about the kitchen with a kind of grace that was seen in so very few. William examined his arms and legs, the sore redness on his pale skin reduced to a vaguely uncomfortable tingling that he knew wouldn’t result in anything close to a tan, but he’d be freckled to hell when it had finally faded. A short, irritated breath puffed out through his nose, and then a plate was put in front of him and Francis was there, holding out a knife and fork.
“Arenae ye supposed tae be in Paris?”
“Oui,” Francis replied, and left it there as William shot him a suspicious look and took the cutlery from him. He moved away to make coffee, and the Scot watched his back, a faint frown drawing a line between his eyebrows. “William, you must do a favour for me.”
“Oh aye?”
“The next time that you decide to go against my advice…” He set a bottle down on the counter between them, and William squinted at it, snorting and tossing a bit of toast at Francis.
‘SPF 100’
----
Hehe, two new tags!
Anyway, I'm going to de-anon the two fills I've mentioned, if anyone is interested.
----
Title: Let Me Show You
Pairing: Denmark/Norway
Rating: M
Warnings: Brief bondage, sex
Summary: Denmark is affectionate but rough - Norway teaches the boisterous Dane how to be gentle with him.
“A-Ow-Matia-D-Danmark, stop!”
There was a thud, and the rooster-haired blond moved away from his smaller lover, a pouting expression on his face and one hand lifting to rub his head. Aleksander was glaring at him, a livid red mark in the shape of Matias’ teeth rising just below his collar bone. As much as he loved the way that the Norwegian looked when the shutters were lifted from behind his eyes and the myriad of shifting emotions was revealed in those deep indigos, he didn’t like it when the man shouted at him. He sat back, head cocked to one side and frowning curiously, watching the other as he rubbed his thumb over the mark left on his skin and scowled slightly.
He loved Matias. That couldn’t be denied. He loved the man from the bottom of his heart but he was tired of this. That his lover thought him so attractive that he couldn’t help being overzealous was flattering, but he was beginning to get bruises on top of bruises. If he wasn’t careful somebody was going to accuse Matias of domestic abuse.
“What’s the matter?” the taller man asked, blinking those big blue eyes at him and seeming genuinely confused.
“You are too rough,” Norway snapped. “Stupid Denmark.”
Matias’ expression fell, and for a moment he looked utterly contrite, then he brightened and moved close, pushing his nose against his lover’s and grinning widely. “I don’t mind bein’ stupid so long as ya love me,” he cooed, immediately finding a hand shoved in his face, pushing him away. He rolled, falling onto his back, and that pout returned as Aleksander shifted away from him, frowning.
“We are not doing this anymore.”
“Ah-what? Never? Norge!” The Dane scrambled across the bed and grabbed the younger nation’s wrist, holding on tightly. “Ya can’t- I mean… Norge, that’s unfair!” He didn’t relinquish his grip on the man even as he tugged to get away, and slowly he coaxed him back to the bed and made him sit down, leaning to try and catch his eye. “Ya never complained before,” he whined, tentatively reaching out to pull his slender-bodied lover towards him, only meeting a slight resistance before he was permitted to draw Aleksander against his chest, looping one arm around him. “What am I doin’ wrong?”
“Everything.” The word stung, and Matias flinched, then buried his head against the Norwegian’s shoulder, nosing lightly into his neck. “… Except for that,” Aleksander conceded, lifting a hand to curl it around Matias’ arm. The Dane huffed and repeated the action, but the bite to the man’s ear that followed found him being smacked over the head again as Aleksander wrestled away from him. He shrank a little under the smaller nation’s glare, and looked rather crestfallen as he watched him walk away, only to perk up as he returned a few moments later, the Dane’s red tie held in his hand.
“You like this tie,” he stated. It wasn’t a question, but Matias nodded anyway. “Good, then you will not want to tear it.”
“Eh? Tear it?” Matias leaned back as Aleksander moved onto the bed, one finger pressed to his chest pushing him onto his back. He rolled his shoulders slightly, and Norway kissed him, his lips warm and soft and distracting him nicely as his hands were clasped and drawn up over his head. Nothing amiss was noticed until he realised that he couldn’t pull his arms down again, and he started visibly, eyes widening when Aleksander pulled away. “H-hey, Norge, this is… ahaha, okay, it’s not funny, untie me, yeah?”
“No,” was the low-voiced reply. “I am going to teach you.”
“Teach me?” He squirmed, tugging but not wanting to rip the tie holding him in place, gaze fixed on the Norwegian as he moved his head lower and let out a soft breath over his skin. “T-teach me wha-a-ahaha-Norge what are ya-nnh…”
Aleksander was kissing his chest, warm, open-mouthed kisses against the faintly fluttering skin, the tenderness of it sending curls of heat straight down through his body. He felt himself blush, the heat rising straight to his ears, fists clenching and unclenching as his legs shifted, heels digging into the bed as if trying to gain some kind of purchase on the sheets. Shivering, he let out another whine and nuzzled against the top of Norway’s head as soon as he was able, huffing lightly against his hair.
“You are too rough, min kjære,” Aleksander said, lifting his head to look Denmark in the eyes and marking the uncertainty in them. “And you do not listen.”
Granted, when he got into things he could be a bit heavy-handed but Aleksander had never complained before. Matias grumbled quietly moments before another breath caught in his chest, his lover’s teeth closing around one sensitised nipple and he gasped, twitching. “Ja, j-ja, I get it, look, untie me, c’mon, I-I’ll do it right this time, nnh-Norge, Aleks-”
The Norwegian blond paused, and looked up at the other from under his eyelashes. Matias stared at him for a moment, pulling on the tie again, hearing a couple of the threads snap and wincing at the sound. “Aleks, I don’t… like this.”
“You will listen to me.”
He nodded, and Aleksander moved to release him, dropping the tie beside the bed. Sitting up and rubbing his wrists, Matias could feel his body tingling, and he studied his lover for a moment as if thinking of the best way to approach this new challenge. Matias had always been rough, boisterous – he wanted pleasure and he wanted it now, and that was simply the way that his mind worked. The smaller blond looked back at him steadily, the shutters back behind his eyes, making them dull and almost flat but Matias knew better and he knew not to be deterred by it.
“Kiss me,” Aleksander told him, shifting slightly closer. Matias felt a flicker of uncertainty in his gut, the sudden awareness of the fact that he could get this wrong making him more anxious than he felt he had any right to be as he lifted a hand and brushed his thumb over the barrette in his lover’s hair, then cupped the back of his head and drew him closer, hesitating just short of his lips before pressing his own against them. Slim fingers slid over his shoulder and gripped lightly, closing around the taut muscle. He felt more than heard the faint humming sound that his lover made against his lips and his eyes opened briefly to find closed lids in front of them. Circling his thumb beneath Aleksander’s ear, he tipped his head slightly and his lover’s lips parted in response, allowing him entry and it was already difficult to hold back, but the way that the blond was moving closer and holding onto his shoulder was gratifying and the bigger part of him didn’t want to spoil it.
Drawing back slowly, the Dane let out a slow breath and waited until Aleksander’s eyes opened. Those shutters were gone again, a spark of light in the Norwegian’s eyes as he looked back at his lover. Resting a hand on his thigh, Matias studied his face for signs of approval or otherwise as he slid his fingers higher, feeling the muscle tense under his palm. Aleksander made a low sound of approval, gently tugging and toying with the small hairs at the nape of his lover’s neck, and Matias flashed him a grin.
“Good?” he asked, and the smaller nation nodded, the Dane glowing under the approval and finding some kind of confidence in it. He slipped an arm around the man and paused when the other stiffened, drawing him close when the tension in his body eased and moving to lie him down against the sheets and soft pillows. A hand was touched to his chest and he reached up to clasp it, bringing it to his lips and kissing the tips of his lover’s finger, feeling a kind of glee in the way that it provoked a blush across the Norwegian’s cheeks. “Ya know, Norg-” he began, faltering when Aleksander placed a finger against his lips and shook his head.
“You talk too much,” he murmured, and Matias swallowed, then pressed a kiss to the offending finger and grinned roguishly when it was immediately pulled away. He almost spoke again, but bit his lip instead and kissed Aleksander’s neck, one hand at his hip stroking over the faintly prominent bone. Shifting his lips down he kept himself attentive to the sounds and movements that his lover made, feeling hands clasping on his upper arms, blunt nails digging faintly into his skin as he found the bite mark he had made earlier and kissed it.
The lack of instruction began to make him anxious again and when he had worked his way down to Aleksander’s stomach he looked up, resting his chin lightly just above his navel. His body was reacting in a way that would suggest he was more than enjoying this, but he could never be sure, and it took looking at him to be absolutely certain. Aleksander was beautifully flushed, his lower lip caught between his teeth, and Matias couldn’t help the grin that spread over his face once again at the sight.
“Aleksander,” he uttered, and the Norwegian nation gave a small shiver. “What do I do next?”
Aleksander didn’t speak, but he held out his arms and Matias moved into them, pulling his lover’s small body to him and stroking one hand over the curve of his hip. His free hand was taken and held, and his eyes softened as he watched the younger man move his fingers over the various nicks and tiny scars that he found, nuzzling gently against the digits. They kissed again, slow and sweet, and the Norwegian nation slid one leg up around Matias’ hip, drawing him closer and fisting one hand lightly into his permanently wild hair.
It was… good. Matias could feel his heart thudding in his chest and he was growing more eager by the second, but at the same time he wanted to hear Aleksander make more of those noises, quiet sounds and soft, breathy moans that he’d never heard the man make before. It made him shiver, made his skin feel warm with a kind of kindling fire that he was unused to.
It made him nervous.
“U-um, Norge…” he mumbled. The need to do something was becoming rather urgent now and it was almost embarrassing. Aleksander looked at his face, then down, and then back up, and pushed his forehead against the Dane’s.
“You may continue.”
“Oh good, I just need-” A bottle was pushed into his hand and he blinked, curling his fingers around it, distracted with further kisses as he warmed the contents. It seemed that Aleksander really didn’t want him talking, and he complied as he shifted the man onto his back and uncapped the bottle with one hand, almost dropping it and fumbling for a moment. He heard a noise and realised that Aleksander was chuckling, and he found himself grinning again, parting his lover’s knees and kissing one of them before he slid his hand between them. Fingers clasped around his wrist and he looked up into the other man’s eyes, blinking slowly.
“What-Did I do somethin’?”
“If you are too heavy-handed, we are stopping,” Aleksander warned him. “Go slowly, this is not a race.”
“Slowly,” Matias echoed with a slight whine in his voice. “Okay, I got it.”
He took his time, massaging one slicked fingertip over the tight ring of muscle until he could slide his finger inside easily. Hearing the hissing sound from his lover he stopped, and looked up, rewarded by the sight of the Norwegian grasping the bed sheets hard, his eyes focused so intently upon Matias’ face that he could almost feel them burning through him. Nosing lightly against the smaller man’s knee, he pushed his finger in deep, moving with the shifting of the others hips and searching for a spot he had before only found by accident. He knew the instant he found it. Aleksander’s body seized up for a moment, eyes flashing wide and slightly unfocused. Continuing to pass his fingertip over that spot he did his best to memorise where it was, the feel of it under his finger, almost experimenting with the sensations that he could give the other man.
“Matias.” He heard his name gasped out and looked up inquisitively, his focus broken. “A-another. Be careful.”
The Dane was beginning to enjoy himself immensely. There was something to be said for this ‘slowly’ thing that Aleksander seemed to be so keen on, even if the growing insistent pressure at his groin was beginning to become unbearable. He did as he was asked, pushing a second finger inside, gently pushing and parting his fingers, relishing the high whine that he received in response. One of his lover’s hands ran into his hair, nails scratching gently at his scalp and he let out a low sound not unlike the deep rumble of a big cat, eyelids dipping to half mast. Aleksander was arching, gasping softly, though he still wasn’t making the sounds that Matias loved to hear from him. A third finger moved in when prompted, a fourth, his own need rather urgent now and he couldn’t hold back the sigh of relief when Norway finally nodded his assent for the man to continue. He moved himself over his lover and slid one hand beneath his hips, lifting them up and pushing a pillow beneath them to make the angle easier on both of them.
Not needing to be told to be gentle or slow by now, he cupped the back of Aleksander’s head with one hand and kissed him deeply, his other hand guiding himself to the smaller man’s entrance and then holding his hip as he pushed himself inside. The smaller nation stiffened, tensing for a moment, the initial entrance always difficult with his narrow frame no matter how long Matias took preparing, but he slowly relaxed, swallowing and pushing his fingers through the Danish nation’s hair. He exhaled a slow and shaky breath, scraping his fingernails up Matias’ back and Matias mumbled happily, lowering his head to Aleksander’s shoulder and resting there for a moment. The relief that finally being inside the man had given him was beginning to recede and the urgency to act was rising again, his limbs trembling slightly, and he nuzzled restlessly against his lover’s throat, letting out another of those low rumbling sounds.
“Danmark,” Aleksander murmured, his voice quiet and soft and something in it that made Matias lift his head to look into the smaller man’s deep indigo eyes. He could feel his ears burning, something like embarrassment working through him in a prickling flush.
“Norge, this is weird,” he huffed, feeling Aleksander’s legs shift, his ankles hooking together at the small of his back and his heels pressing in slightly. He moved forwards and heard the answering gasp, felt the faint arch of the smaller man’s body and slipped one hand beneath his back, thumbing against his spine. “Ya.. really like it like this?” Frowning slightly, he watched the other nod once, and he made an uncertain noise. “’S kinda…”
He thought about it, Norway’s fingers stroking through his hair making it hard to maintain coherent thought. Aleksander’s body was small and soft, his hip bones stuck out a little and his ribs showed up under his skin as his chest rose and fell. The light in the room caught on the barrette still secured in his hair and glinted off it, and Matias stroked over it with his thumb, smiling a little at the cooing sound that the action produced.
“’S not so bad,” he conceded quietly, lifting his lover into a kiss and making his first move, slowly, drawing back almost completely before pushing back inside, Aleksander’s hips rising to meet his and a half-choked groan shuddering up from low in his chest. His touch light and almost tentative, he slid his fingers over that brassy barrette once again and slowly unfixed it from the Norwegian nation’s hair, curling his hand closed over it and holding it while the man looked up at him with his eyes slightly widened, his gaze entirely open. He fell into an easy rhythm, the steady push-pull of his hips met by the others, breath faltering to an unsteady panting as Aleksander became more vocal, his voice rising to a volume that was so rarely heard in his everyday speech. Matias slipped both arms around him and held him close, feeling the man’s teeth close lightly on his earlobe and gently tug. He let out a low sound of pleasure and shifted to kiss him, and Aleksander pressed up against him, wrapping slender arms around his shoulders and gripping with thin, pale fingers.
This was familiar, he knew what he was doing now, his movements more assured as he cradled Aleksander against him. His lover’s eyes fell closed and he pressed kisses to the lids, his shoulders hunching as the curling heat low in his abdomen began to draw together. One hand moved between them and wrapped around the Norwegian’s member, the flat of his thumb stroking over the slicked head and down the underside. The brief contact was enough. Aleksander stiffened, tensing, lips parting in a silent cry as he climaxed and spilled between them. He rode his orgasm as Matias moved towards his own, meeting it after several more thrusts into that tight heat and pushing his forehead against the others neck, teeth gritted and a rumbling whine rising in his throat.
He didn’t realise how tightly the smaller man was holding onto him until he let go, and he felt the absence of the warmth against him, looking down at Aleksander’s face as his eyes fluttered open.
“Was that so difficult?” he murmured, drawing Denmark’s hand to his chest and uncurling his fingers, picking up his barrette and fixing it in Matias’ hair. The Danish nation scrunched his nose up slightly and grinned, lifting a hand to touch the barrette and then nuzzling his lover’s cheek.
“I reckon I might be able ta do that more often,” he said, abruptly rolling them so that the smaller man was straddling his hips. Aleksander winced and hissed softly, but said nothing, stroking his fingertips lightly over the others chest. “But only if ya let me be rough with ya sometimes,” he added. “’Cause ya make cute noises.” Rubbing his hands up and down Norway’s thighs, that grin was still on his face as he looked up and watched a slowly darkening blush work its way over the other Nordic’s cheeks. Indigo eyes slanted away and then back, his lips pressing together before he let out a slow breath through his nose and leaned down, the change in position drawing a quiet groan from the both of them.
“I think that I can live with that.”
----
Title: Sun Protection Factor
Pairing: France/Scotland
Rating: U
Warnings: None
Summary: Left alone while visiting Francis in Marseille, a certain Scot becomes bored and goes out to sightsee without putting on sunscreen, with painful results.
He had to hand it to the guy. For as useless as he was he sure had a way with building damn pretty cities. The sun was just touching the horizon, sending sleepy orange light over the buildings and streets of Marseille, and a young man with vivid red hair and green eyes leaned on the balustrade of a balcony three storeys up, eyes faintly narrowed on the view as he finished his first cigarette of the day.
“It’s a damn bonnie place,” he uttered to himself, knowing better than to say such things around Francis for the man was far too proud and compliments always went straight to his head. Taking one last drag he almost flicked the butt out over the rooftops, marking himself a moment later and instead moving to stub it out in the ashtray set atop a nearby table. William rubbed the side of his nose and sniffed, heading back inside though only to retrieve a bottle of scotch and a glass filled with ice, setting them down on the table and tugging off the note stuck to the side of the bottle.
Écosse,
I will be out for the day, so help yourself to anything you need! It is going to be hot today, keep out of the sun or you will spoil your lovely complexion.
À +!
‘Keep out of the sun’. He scrunched the note up in his hand and sent it skittering across the balcony, dropping into a chair and kicking his feet up onto the balustrade, tilting his head back and looking up at the brightening sky. It was already stinging his eyes and he could feel the heat on his skin like something tangible, almost stifling. A hand lifted to push his hair from his face found a faint dampness on his forehead and he let out a low sound of something like disgust, pouring a measure of scotch and knocking it back, immediately filling up the glass again and taking a slow sip.
It was eight in the morning and he was half dying of boredom. Slowly, the temperature rose, the level of alcohol in the bottle dropped, and the amount of clothing that the Scottish nation was wearing began to diminish. Certainly he understood that his French host was busy and he had been warned that the man would not be able to be around during the day, and he really did appreciate (though he hadn’t mentioned it) the fact that Francis was making a six hour round trip by train on the days that he was required to be in Paris, but he was bored. By the time he decided to do something about it, most of the scotch was gone, and he was stripped to his shorts and sandals. The sunlight was creeping over the balcony and his feet were hot, his hair was beginning to stick to his forehead and the back of his neck, and the blue water of the harbour was twinkling oh-so-temptingly barely a mile away.
“Sod thes,” he let out, slamming his glass down with perhaps a little too much force, getting to his feet and leaning out over the balustrade, letting the faint, warm breeze ruffle his hair for a moment. “Ah’mnae stayin’ in haur.”
William left a note on the kitchen table and got out of the apartment as quickly as possible. France’s tastes were rather far removed from his own and while he couldn’t fault that the place was very aesthetically pleasing, it was too white, too clean, he didn’t like it. At least, out on the streets of Marseille he could relax a little in the feeling of being abroad, not feeling quite so out of place as he made his way down the street with his hands pushed into his pockets, the heat of the day beating down on him. It felt better than on the balcony, the light wind drying the sweat on his neck and forehead, carrying the scent of salt in from the bay. At first he kept to the shade, the high buildings on either side of the street making it easy, but as the shade came to a stop and the shining, glittering seafront beckoned he came to a stop, scuffing his foot lightly against the floor.
The first step out into the sunlight was like walking into a wall. He hesitated and almost swayed backwards, drawing in a quick breath through his teeth. “Bleedin’ heel.” Shaking his head, he pressed on, his pace slow and leisurely as he strolled along beside the old port. Stopping at a small café for lunch he sat outside, no doubt looking like a typical tourist as the way that his accent inevitably butchered his attempts at pronouncing French words forced him to simply point at what he wanted.
With a light meal inside him he sat back, sipping at a glass of iced water, and let out a quiet hum. “Weel, thes isnae sae bad.” He didn’t even feel all that hot anymore, though the constant heat was beginning to give him a headache. “Bide it ay th’ sin, eh, Francis? Nae need tae.”
He explored a little more, though eventually his steps began to take him back to Francis’ apartment. Beginning to feel slightly ill, he noticed that his hands were shaking as he tried to push the key in to unlock the door, and silently blamed it on the amount he’d had to drink before going out, moving quickly to bed and deciding that a quick lie down would be just the thing to put him back to normal. It didn’t take him long to realise that there was something rather more wrong than a simple headache and within an hour he was cursing his foolishness of going outdoors without first protecting his damnably sensitive skin. He felt like he was on fire, overheated and near-hyperventilating as his brain made repeated attempts to escape out of every orifice in his head. Shaking and barely able to walk in a straight line he closed the curtains and almost tripped over himself on his way back to bed, tossing and turning as he tried to find some comfortable position to lie in.
When Francis arrived home it was already early evening, and he let out a loud sound of relief as soon as the door closed behind him. Setting his case down he discarded his jacket and tie and tugged at the fabric of his shirt, untucking it from his trousers in an attempt to circulate some air against his skin.
“Écosse!” he called, moving through to the kitchen and opening the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of wine. “Scotland? I am home! Où es-tu?” Tucking his hair behind his ear, Francis ‘hmm’ed softly and left the wine on the kitchen counter, walking to the Scottish nation’s bedroom door and pressing his ear to it. “Écosse? Are you unwell?” A minute later with no answer prompted him to push the door open, finding the room lit dimly with the evening light filtering in through the drawn curtains, and the man that he was looking for lying on the bed, his back to the door, half curled up.
“William?” Francis frowned and tapped his lower lip with one finger, then moved across the room and sat down on the bed. Using one finger, he drew the Scottish nation’s hair away from his face, leaning down slightly. “Écosse…” he repeated, quietly, and the redhead let out a low sound, something close to a groan. He moved towards the elders’ cool touch against his forehead, and Francis huffed a soft breath out through his nose.
“Francis…” the younger man mumbled, stirring and making a grab at the others wrist, missing by several inches. “Francis, Ah dornt feel sae hot.”
“You feel rather hot to me, mon petit…” The literal taking of his words made William groan and he batted at the man, burying his face against the pillow and muttering incoherently. A little urging moved the redhead onto his back and Francis leaned down, pressing their foreheads together, looking into the others eyes as they flickered open, slightly dim and distant.
“Mah heed feels loch… loch…” He couldn’t find an appropriate simile to use and instead fell silent when Francis shook his head and drew back. William ached all over, his skin felt dry and tight but so hot and every movement drew a sound of protest as his body rebelled against it. It was difficult to keep his eyes open even in this low light, but Francis’ hands were so blessedly cool as they moved from his forehead down to his neck and over his chest.
“You have managed to give yourself sunstroke,” he was told, and he let his eyes slide closed. Forget sunstroke. He had been feeling worse and worse since Francis had walked in and now he felt just about ready to curl up and die. It wasn’t that he hadn’t had sunstroke before – with skin like his he couldn’t really avoid it – but it had been a while and the day had been particularly hot. “Did I not warn you not to go out in the sun? Perhaps next time I will tell you to go out and enjoy it and you will stay home, oui?” He sighed, and pushed a hand through his hair. “Mon Dieu. Oui, oui, I suppose I will have to deal with this.”
His hand moved down and in a sudden burst of mental acuity, William’s fingers found his wrist and gripped tightly. “Whit th’ heel ur ye daein’?” he mumbled, unable to raise his voice.
“I am taking off your shorts, and then you are going to come with me and you are going to have a cold shower,” Francis informed him, and for a brief moment the grip on his wrist tightened while William attempted to think that over. Then, he released him and grumbled under his breath, allowing the French nation to tug his shorts off. At least, William thought, the man had the decency to blush.
He was pulled into a sitting position. They were more or less the same height but Scotland was larger in build, and Francis was huffing as he helped him to stand, all but dragging the unsteady younger man to the bathroom and sitting him on the side of the bath. William wouldn’t say that he wasn’t grateful for the concern that he saw in the other man’s eyes, but that didn’t mean that he wasn’t going to complain about it, and he wasn’t too happy about being told to sit in the bottom of the bathtub, either.
“You should become ill more often if this is how docile it makes you,” Francis commented as he reached up to pull the shower head down from the wall.
“That’s... that’s nae..!” he tried to protest but the French nation simply smiled and shook his head and his words died in his throat. William had had a soft spot for the flirt for longer than he could remember, ever since they had allied against his brother England in the early fourteenth century, and though Francis had always played ignorant he was sure that the man knew, and he used the way that he could always disarm the bad-tempered Scottish man to his advantage.
“Enough of that.” Francis was altering the temperature of the water and William could already feel it washing up against his toes. “Lean forwards, rest your head down, come on.” Then the water was running down his back, the temperature sending a chill through his overheated body, and he drew his legs up to hug them to his chest, resting his forehead against his knees. His breathing felt strange, too fast, but the water and Francis’ fingers stroking through his hair was calming and it eased his nerves. Francis was talking to him, but he couldn’t hear him properly over the sound of his heartbeat throbbing in his ears. Fingers touched under his chin and he lifted his head, frowning as his eyes struggled to focus and he tried to hold on to one coherent thought before it squirmed away from him. It was difficult, and Francis wasn’t making it any easier.
Water cascaded over his head and he spluttered, coughing, pain throbbing at his temples, shoulders hunching over and eyes shutting tightly. “Whit th’ heel?!” he demanded, but Francis only let out a soft chuckle and shifted to alter the temperature of the water, a faint chill now rising goosebumps up and down the younger man’s back. Presently, the water was turned off and a towel was wrapped around his shoulders, and he felt like a child as he was helped out of the bath and gently dried off, not even thinking to protest now as his briefs were stripped and the towel was wrapped around his waist. Francis hadn’t looked.
“Ah’mnae docile,” he muttered, hearing a half amused ‘oui, oui’ from Francis but little else besides as he was taken back to bed. Francis pulled a cord to turn on the ceiling fan and the cool shifting of air was like a blessing against his still-damp skin. His fingers clenched on the bed sheets as he tried to think through the fog in his mind, and then Francis’ hands were on him again, strangely calming, placing a cool cloth over his forehead and William heard the faint clink of a glass being put down.
His breathing shuddered and Francis slipped a hand behind his head, lifting him up and putting a cup to his lips. As a rule, Scotland wasn’t a water drinker but he made an exception this time and sipped carefully, coughing as he found swallowing to be slightly painful but managing to drink. His head was laid back down and his hair moved gently from his forehead, and his eyes flickered open, finding it easier this time and watching Francis’ face as he moved to scoop an ice cube from a glass beside the bed, his gaze locked to it as it was touched against his skin. The muscles of his stomach fluttered and he hissed softly, fingers tightening on the bed sheets again.
“Francis,” he said, something quiet and warning in his voice and blue eyes flicked up to meet his. “Ah’m in nae mood fur yer takin’ advantage.”
“Would I do such a thing, mon petit?” Francis sounded hurt and for a moment the Scottish nation felt a flicker of guilt, though it quickly died when he firmly reminded himself just who he was dealing with.
“Ah’m nae sayin’ ye would, but Ah’m nae stranger tae yer charms.”
Francis seemed to be considering this, as he drew the slowly melting cube of frozen water back and forth between the younger man’s hips. William closed his eyes, even though doing so only seemed to heighten the sensations against his skin, and after several minutes had passed, the ice cube running a trail up over his chest to his collar bone, he heard the French nation chuckle. “I think that you know me too well, Écosse,” he stated quietly. The redhead laughed and immediately regretted doing so, but the smile stayed on his lips despite how miserable he felt.
“Do you think that you are able to sleep?” Francis asked then. William thought about it. He couldn’t decide if he felt hot or cold, if the shiver was from the ice still moving over his skin or the older man’s proximity to him, or if he even trusted the French nation enough to allow that kind of vulnerability, but what he did know was that the instant sleep was suggested, half of his brain shut down and the half that was still working was begging him to take the offer. He wet his lips with his tongue and cleared his throat.
“Aye.”
He wasn’t used to sleeping with somebody else, and it was distinctly strange to be so aware of his back resting against somebody else’s chest, feeling the heartbeat of the other man beating against his ribs.
“Ah’mnae sae sure about thes, Francis,” William half mumbled, though he wasn’t allowed much leeway as his head was gently drawn back against the French nation’s shoulder, his forehead being dabbed at lightly with the flannel that had been placed across it earlier.
“Honestly, you are more difficult to handle than Arthur.” He might have made a comment to that, if the cool cloth against his forehead and the way that Francis was resting his free hand over his heart weren’t so very, very distracting. “Just go to sleep, big brother France will take care of you.”
“Yoo're nae mah big brither, that's jist creepy.”
“Sleep,” Francis soothed, and William sighed, doing his best to ignore the fact that he was only dressed in a towel as he tried to fall asleep.
The next thing that he was aware of was waking up, the soft cool sheets pulled up around his hips, and he was alone. He sat up shakily, holding a hand to his head and hating how weak he felt, casting his eyes around the room for any sign that the blond man had been there at all. Small things gave it away – the curtains being slightly open to let in air from the open balcony door, a glass half full of water on the nightstand, a flannel folded beside it. William felt a small smile curve his lips, and he slipped out of bed, pulling on a pair of jeans and poking his head out into the hallway. He could hear his host in the kitchen, singing to himself, and he made his way towards the noise, blue on green as he entered the room.
“Ah, mon petit! I was beginning to think that you would never appear,” Francis laughed, crossing to him and kissing both of his cheeks. “You must be hungry, non? Come, come, sit down.”
He allowed himself to be guided to chair and seated, and watched the other as he busied himself with his cooking, moving about the kitchen with a kind of grace that was seen in so very few. William examined his arms and legs, the sore redness on his pale skin reduced to a vaguely uncomfortable tingling that he knew wouldn’t result in anything close to a tan, but he’d be freckled to hell when it had finally faded. A short, irritated breath puffed out through his nose, and then a plate was put in front of him and Francis was there, holding out a knife and fork.
“Arenae ye supposed tae be in Paris?”
“Oui,” Francis replied, and left it there as William shot him a suspicious look and took the cutlery from him. He moved away to make coffee, and the Scot watched his back, a faint frown drawing a line between his eyebrows. “William, you must do a favour for me.”
“Oh aye?”
“The next time that you decide to go against my advice…” He set a bottle down on the counter between them, and William squinted at it, snorting and tossing a bit of toast at Francis.
‘SPF 100’
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Hehe, two new tags!
