fic: we danced on tabletops
Jul. 16th, 2011 09:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bonnefoisTitle: we danced on tabletops.
Series: Hetalia
Character/pairing: France/Canada
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2331
Author's note: kink meme: A finds out that B dances to trashy sexy club music and joins in + France/Canada, frottage and dirty talk. Also for my K!B: wrestling/grinding.
Also for Melly's birthday, which is today ♥
Title is from "Last Friday Night" by Katy Perry because it's catchy and fun and I fail forever at being a hipster.
*
When France came to Canada, he expected peace and quiet. It wasn't like going to the Grecian islands and hitting the most fashionable clubs, or the lights and constant motion of New York City. Even the larger cities had a certain serenity which American cities never managed in all their constant kinetic state.
France's hand paused at the door. America had once told him that Canada once spent a whole weekend in a daze over his bear's eyelashes. There was a loud beat thumping inside. Did Canada have company? Perhaps America was over. No, he'd left America fighting with England at New York. He tested the door and found it unlocked, so he stepped right in.
The house looked about the same. Comfortable, a bit kitschy. Canada's hiking boots left at the door, a coat hung carelessly on a door. France stepped over the woven rug in the hallway, through the kitchen which still had a sink full of dirty dishes to the living room, where the noise seemed to be emanating from.
That was when he caught sight of Canada.
The only thing Canada was wearing was a pair of tight jeans. He had a thin sheen of sweat, his hair dampened and stuck to his forehead. His eyes were closed as he lost himself to the beat. He swivelled his hips to a a song which nothing to the imagination. France had heard the sorts of things on Canada's iPod before, and they were indie artists with a catch enough beat, but nothing like this. If he'd known, maybe he'd have taken Canada with him when he last clubbed in some of Greece's more infamous clubs.
But, no, he thought to himself. He didn't want anybody else seeing Canada like this. Sweaty and wild, in nothing but tight jeans which left even less to the imagination than the lyrics. Canada stopped briefly to knock back a shot. France stepped back out of his line of sight, and with logic only he knew, Canada climbed up on the counter and kept dancing. France reached out from habit, worried that he would fall over, but Canada kept his balance even in his inebriated state. From this angle, France noticed that the jeans weren't just tight, but rode low. He kept dancing, every bit of him looking more and more luscious with every gyration. France felt it well up deep inside him, a hunger to to touch, to hold, to thoroughly fuck Canada until he couldn't even remember his own name.
The song shifted to another song with a lighter beat, but with just as suggestive lyrics. Canada climbed down. He still hadn't tired, and he knocked back yet another shot of something that smelled fruity and delicious. It only added to the general smell of him: Canada always smelled faintly of evergreen, but now added the scents of alcohol and sweat. He pushed his hair out of his face, and arched his back like a cat. France couldn't help himself anymore.
France turned off the dial down for a moment.
"Perhaps you'd like some company?" He said.
"F-France—!" Canada gasped. He whirled around, his cheeks flaming with color. "I thought Kumajiji was playing a joke again....H-How long have you been watching?"
"Long enough. I never expected to see this side of you," France purred. He came up behind Canada and stroked his hips. "I like it."
"America said I don't know how to have a weekend. So I figured I'd show him, but then I couldn't get anyone to go with me, so I decided to just stay home."
France smiled suggestively. "If you aren't tired, I'll be happy to make sure you don't spend tonight alone."
A slow smile spread over Canada's face. "I'd be grateful."
France reached out to the stereo and turned it up again, but not so loud that he would have to yell to be overheard. They danced together, grinding to the beat. Canada reached up, a hint of coyness and mischievous, and undid the buttons of France's white dress shirt without ever stopping dancing.
He pushed the shirt off of him, and kicked it over near the couch. The song shifted to a song with a slow, rolling beat and some of the most filthy lyrics France had ever heard. He ground his erection against Canada's taut ass, holding tightly to Canada's hips. It might have thrown them off rhythm, but frankly, it was hard to give a damn when he was this hard. Canada was molding himself to France, arching his back so that for sticky moments they would be seamless and sweaty together.
But this wasn't enough for France. Not nearly enough. He leaned in close, and began to weave the image he could so clearly see in his mind's eyes.
"Imagine the room filled with people," France said, his voice low and sensual. "Bright lights, the scent of alcohol, a faint whiff of drugs in another room, among other forbidden pleasures..."
The music was decadent. It helped the fantasy he was forming, and bringing Canada into.
"Everyone in the room is watching you. They all want you, but they can't have you because you're mine," France said.
Canada's breath hitched.
France licked his lips, and continued. "They want to join in. They want to kiss you and dance with you, but I won't let them. I usually share my lovers, but not you because you're special."
"...and I'm y-yours?" Canada asked, his voice trembling ever so slightly at the last word.
"Yes," France said. He cupped Canada's ass and squeezed possessively. "All mine."
Canada moaned and ground into him. France ran his hands up Canada's chest as they grinded together, stuck fast to the beat. He licked the side of Canada's neck, tasting the salt of his skin as he appreciatively felt over Canada's chest. They were a wave, pulsating and moving to the beat, locked together and tight. It felt like there was a fire under his skin, burning and throbbing as they rubbed together in their dance. They wantonly touched, gripping and groping, nipping at whatever skin they could find.
"Please–Please tell me more," Canada gasped.
"Oh?" France nuzzled to him. "More? Hmm...." He teasingly drew out his thoughtful pause.
"Whatever could you want more of?" France asked, playing the innocent for once.
"You know what—" He broke into another throaty gasp as France slipped his hands just past the waistband of his skinny jeans.
"They're watching us dance," France said above the beat of the song. "They're thinking you're the most beautiful thing they've ever seen–after me, of course. They're thinking we're so lucky, they're really jealous."
"Jealous..." Canada breathed. He shuddered as France ground his erection against his ass.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" France purred. "For me to fuck you right in front of a crowd of people. Right out in public with them all wanting you, to be with you...Oh cher–"
He was about to continue spinning the fantasy, but Canada abruptly shifted and crushed their lips together. Canada's skin was damp with sweat and hot. He tasted faintly of salt, and strong Canadian beer. The kisses Canada gave him were playful. He pulled back just as it would deepen, and tugged France towards somewhere else. A bedroom, perhaps? France could only hope. Though, a bathroom, a couch or any other reasonable vertical or horizontal surface would suffice.
Canada teasingly pulled away, breaking the kiss only to lead him on to the kitchen, his hand in France's own. France had no idea what was going through Canada's mind, but it could only lead to good things.
Canda got back up on the counter (really, France mused, how drunk was he?) and held out his hand. France shook his head. Ah, the whims of the drunken.
"You'll fall, mon chéri," France said.
"What, I'm not totally smashed, just buzzed, eh," Canada protested.
France raised one brow. "You're dancing on a counter."
"Part of the experience. Besides, I was raised by you and England. I can even drink Netherlands under the table," Canada said.
France sighed, and climbed up himself. The ceiling was high, which was good as otherwise they'd be knocking heads. Especially Canada, who had grown up very tall and strong these years. They danced back to back for a moment, more careful than before at this height.
Canada laughed, giddily as they turned again, rubbing erections and bodies as they kissed and moved in this square of space. Canada was quite the biter, nipping at lips, even once at his tongue. All the while, France squeezed, cupped and felt up every inch of Canada's ass. Usually he wasn't one to simply focus on one area, to stare at a woman's breasts and ignore her lovely hair, eyes or legs, but all those hoodies and long coats had hidden something very nice.
Canada sat down, and for a moment he thought he was going to climb off, but then, he laid down, and smiled in a way that France knew was an invitation. A bit of rearranging, and he was on top of Canada, feeling him writhe under France. Oh, they were both so hard, and each gyration brought their erections rubbing through the thin material of their all-too-tight jeans. Between kisses, he leaned down to suck on Canada's neck. Canada leaned back, and let out a breathy moan of pure pleasure. When France leaned back, he saw Canada's expression too was one of unrestrained pleasure.
"A sensitive neck?" France mused aloud. "I could take advantage of this...."
Canada giggled as France ran a finger down the muscles of his neck.
"I could leave you marked," France said in a husky whisper. "So everyone would know you were mine. Even people just walking down the street, people on the public transit...."
It was a sudden cry, his hips moving in a quick grind against France's. It was all France needed–the grinding, the pressure, the look on Canada's face and the sound of his voice–to make him come. Orgasming at almost the exact time could be hard to orchestrate, but there was always a certain satisfaction in the synergy, the oneness of feeling the rising pleasure at once.
France laid his head on Canada's chest as the climax went through him. And they lay like that for quite a while, not speaking or moving, just sitting back and enjoying the closeness, the onset to the last vestiges of the physical delight.
The problem with having sex in odd areas, however, was the post-coital moments. In a bed, you could just lay back. On a counter, you had to carefully extract yourself or the afterglow would be ruined by a fall.
"Ahh, I'm dizzy," Canada said.
"You've been spinning too much on high places, chéri," France said.
The disentangled and Canada lifted himself from the counter. They leaned on each other, and Canada sighed as they walked the distance to the living room again. The music was still pounding, and France searched for a moment at the side table and finally picked up a remote and turned it off.
"I feel boneless and gooey," he said.
Worn out, Canada collapsed on the couch.
France sat down too. Canada leaned his head against France's chest, and France stroked his hair.
"Think we can do it all again?" Canada murmured sleepily.
"Oh yes, mon amour," France said. "But next time, it'll be in public."
Canada drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face. France stayed up a bit longer, pulling one of those tacky-yet-warm plaid blankets over them. He leaned back and smoked, his fingers idly twisting a curl of Canada's silky hair around his fingers. This wasn't the first time Canada had surprised him, and it surely wouldn't be the last. He looked forward to next week, and all the weeks after that. He'd find out every last one of Canada's kinks and take advantage and fulfill them, no matter how long it took.
Series: Hetalia
Character/pairing: France/Canada
Rating: NC-17
Word count: 2331
Author's note: kink meme: A finds out that B dances to trashy sexy club music and joins in + France/Canada, frottage and dirty talk. Also for my K!B: wrestling/grinding.
Also for Melly's birthday, which is today ♥
Title is from "Last Friday Night" by Katy Perry because it's catchy and fun and I fail forever at being a hipster.
*
When France came to Canada, he expected peace and quiet. It wasn't like going to the Grecian islands and hitting the most fashionable clubs, or the lights and constant motion of New York City. Even the larger cities had a certain serenity which American cities never managed in all their constant kinetic state.
France's hand paused at the door. America had once told him that Canada once spent a whole weekend in a daze over his bear's eyelashes. There was a loud beat thumping inside. Did Canada have company? Perhaps America was over. No, he'd left America fighting with England at New York. He tested the door and found it unlocked, so he stepped right in.
The house looked about the same. Comfortable, a bit kitschy. Canada's hiking boots left at the door, a coat hung carelessly on a door. France stepped over the woven rug in the hallway, through the kitchen which still had a sink full of dirty dishes to the living room, where the noise seemed to be emanating from.
That was when he caught sight of Canada.
The only thing Canada was wearing was a pair of tight jeans. He had a thin sheen of sweat, his hair dampened and stuck to his forehead. His eyes were closed as he lost himself to the beat. He swivelled his hips to a a song which nothing to the imagination. France had heard the sorts of things on Canada's iPod before, and they were indie artists with a catch enough beat, but nothing like this. If he'd known, maybe he'd have taken Canada with him when he last clubbed in some of Greece's more infamous clubs.
But, no, he thought to himself. He didn't want anybody else seeing Canada like this. Sweaty and wild, in nothing but tight jeans which left even less to the imagination than the lyrics. Canada stopped briefly to knock back a shot. France stepped back out of his line of sight, and with logic only he knew, Canada climbed up on the counter and kept dancing. France reached out from habit, worried that he would fall over, but Canada kept his balance even in his inebriated state. From this angle, France noticed that the jeans weren't just tight, but rode low. He kept dancing, every bit of him looking more and more luscious with every gyration. France felt it well up deep inside him, a hunger to to touch, to hold, to thoroughly fuck Canada until he couldn't even remember his own name.
The song shifted to another song with a lighter beat, but with just as suggestive lyrics. Canada climbed down. He still hadn't tired, and he knocked back yet another shot of something that smelled fruity and delicious. It only added to the general smell of him: Canada always smelled faintly of evergreen, but now added the scents of alcohol and sweat. He pushed his hair out of his face, and arched his back like a cat. France couldn't help himself anymore.
France turned off the dial down for a moment.
"Perhaps you'd like some company?" He said.
"F-France—!" Canada gasped. He whirled around, his cheeks flaming with color. "I thought Kumajiji was playing a joke again....H-How long have you been watching?"
"Long enough. I never expected to see this side of you," France purred. He came up behind Canada and stroked his hips. "I like it."
"America said I don't know how to have a weekend. So I figured I'd show him, but then I couldn't get anyone to go with me, so I decided to just stay home."
France smiled suggestively. "If you aren't tired, I'll be happy to make sure you don't spend tonight alone."
A slow smile spread over Canada's face. "I'd be grateful."
France reached out to the stereo and turned it up again, but not so loud that he would have to yell to be overheard. They danced together, grinding to the beat. Canada reached up, a hint of coyness and mischievous, and undid the buttons of France's white dress shirt without ever stopping dancing.
He pushed the shirt off of him, and kicked it over near the couch. The song shifted to a song with a slow, rolling beat and some of the most filthy lyrics France had ever heard. He ground his erection against Canada's taut ass, holding tightly to Canada's hips. It might have thrown them off rhythm, but frankly, it was hard to give a damn when he was this hard. Canada was molding himself to France, arching his back so that for sticky moments they would be seamless and sweaty together.
But this wasn't enough for France. Not nearly enough. He leaned in close, and began to weave the image he could so clearly see in his mind's eyes.
"Imagine the room filled with people," France said, his voice low and sensual. "Bright lights, the scent of alcohol, a faint whiff of drugs in another room, among other forbidden pleasures..."
The music was decadent. It helped the fantasy he was forming, and bringing Canada into.
"Everyone in the room is watching you. They all want you, but they can't have you because you're mine," France said.
Canada's breath hitched.
France licked his lips, and continued. "They want to join in. They want to kiss you and dance with you, but I won't let them. I usually share my lovers, but not you because you're special."
"...and I'm y-yours?" Canada asked, his voice trembling ever so slightly at the last word.
"Yes," France said. He cupped Canada's ass and squeezed possessively. "All mine."
Canada moaned and ground into him. France ran his hands up Canada's chest as they grinded together, stuck fast to the beat. He licked the side of Canada's neck, tasting the salt of his skin as he appreciatively felt over Canada's chest. They were a wave, pulsating and moving to the beat, locked together and tight. It felt like there was a fire under his skin, burning and throbbing as they rubbed together in their dance. They wantonly touched, gripping and groping, nipping at whatever skin they could find.
"Please–Please tell me more," Canada gasped.
"Oh?" France nuzzled to him. "More? Hmm...." He teasingly drew out his thoughtful pause.
"Whatever could you want more of?" France asked, playing the innocent for once.
"You know what—" He broke into another throaty gasp as France slipped his hands just past the waistband of his skinny jeans.
"They're watching us dance," France said above the beat of the song. "They're thinking you're the most beautiful thing they've ever seen–after me, of course. They're thinking we're so lucky, they're really jealous."
"Jealous..." Canada breathed. He shuddered as France ground his erection against his ass.
"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" France purred. "For me to fuck you right in front of a crowd of people. Right out in public with them all wanting you, to be with you...Oh cher–"
He was about to continue spinning the fantasy, but Canada abruptly shifted and crushed their lips together. Canada's skin was damp with sweat and hot. He tasted faintly of salt, and strong Canadian beer. The kisses Canada gave him were playful. He pulled back just as it would deepen, and tugged France towards somewhere else. A bedroom, perhaps? France could only hope. Though, a bathroom, a couch or any other reasonable vertical or horizontal surface would suffice.
Canada teasingly pulled away, breaking the kiss only to lead him on to the kitchen, his hand in France's own. France had no idea what was going through Canada's mind, but it could only lead to good things.
Canda got back up on the counter (really, France mused, how drunk was he?) and held out his hand. France shook his head. Ah, the whims of the drunken.
"You'll fall, mon chéri," France said.
"What, I'm not totally smashed, just buzzed, eh," Canada protested.
France raised one brow. "You're dancing on a counter."
"Part of the experience. Besides, I was raised by you and England. I can even drink Netherlands under the table," Canada said.
France sighed, and climbed up himself. The ceiling was high, which was good as otherwise they'd be knocking heads. Especially Canada, who had grown up very tall and strong these years. They danced back to back for a moment, more careful than before at this height.
Canada laughed, giddily as they turned again, rubbing erections and bodies as they kissed and moved in this square of space. Canada was quite the biter, nipping at lips, even once at his tongue. All the while, France squeezed, cupped and felt up every inch of Canada's ass. Usually he wasn't one to simply focus on one area, to stare at a woman's breasts and ignore her lovely hair, eyes or legs, but all those hoodies and long coats had hidden something very nice.
Canada sat down, and for a moment he thought he was going to climb off, but then, he laid down, and smiled in a way that France knew was an invitation. A bit of rearranging, and he was on top of Canada, feeling him writhe under France. Oh, they were both so hard, and each gyration brought their erections rubbing through the thin material of their all-too-tight jeans. Between kisses, he leaned down to suck on Canada's neck. Canada leaned back, and let out a breathy moan of pure pleasure. When France leaned back, he saw Canada's expression too was one of unrestrained pleasure.
"A sensitive neck?" France mused aloud. "I could take advantage of this...."
Canada giggled as France ran a finger down the muscles of his neck.
"I could leave you marked," France said in a husky whisper. "So everyone would know you were mine. Even people just walking down the street, people on the public transit...."
It was a sudden cry, his hips moving in a quick grind against France's. It was all France needed–the grinding, the pressure, the look on Canada's face and the sound of his voice–to make him come. Orgasming at almost the exact time could be hard to orchestrate, but there was always a certain satisfaction in the synergy, the oneness of feeling the rising pleasure at once.
France laid his head on Canada's chest as the climax went through him. And they lay like that for quite a while, not speaking or moving, just sitting back and enjoying the closeness, the onset to the last vestiges of the physical delight.
The problem with having sex in odd areas, however, was the post-coital moments. In a bed, you could just lay back. On a counter, you had to carefully extract yourself or the afterglow would be ruined by a fall.
"Ahh, I'm dizzy," Canada said.
"You've been spinning too much on high places, chéri," France said.
The disentangled and Canada lifted himself from the counter. They leaned on each other, and Canada sighed as they walked the distance to the living room again. The music was still pounding, and France searched for a moment at the side table and finally picked up a remote and turned it off.
"I feel boneless and gooey," he said.
Worn out, Canada collapsed on the couch.
France sat down too. Canada leaned his head against France's chest, and France stroked his hair.
"Think we can do it all again?" Canada murmured sleepily.
"Oh yes, mon amour," France said. "But next time, it'll be in public."
Canada drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face. France stayed up a bit longer, pulling one of those tacky-yet-warm plaid blankets over them. He leaned back and smoked, his fingers idly twisting a curl of Canada's silky hair around his fingers. This wasn't the first time Canada had surprised him, and it surely wouldn't be the last. He looked forward to next week, and all the weeks after that. He'd find out every last one of Canada's kinks and take advantage and fulfill them, no matter how long it took.
