berseker: (ninja)
[personal profile] berseker
Title: Sweet Child of Mine
Warnings: Weirdness, embarrassment kink (is this a thing?), erotic humiliation (????) and, erm, stuff. Look, just don’t read it /hides
Pairings: France/Brazil.
Summary: Luciano misbehaves. Francis takes advantage.

Zu read it over for me and her comment was THIS IS SO FUCKING WRONG AAAAAAAAAH. So yeah.

When Luciano woke up, it was almost noon, and his head was pounding. He moaned, closing his eyes tight against the light from the window, and was almost going back to sleep when the memory from yesterday jolted him awake.

Francis. And-


And a bunch of French policeman and handcuffs and it had seemed so funny, he had been singing something and he knew he couldn't stop until he was done for... some reason that seemed important, and-

Oh God.

He covered his face with both hands, and moaned again. Today was going to be a very long day.

Francis was in his pristinely clean kitchen, holding something that looked like an egg whisk, but could be absolutely anything. Luciano stopped at the doorway, trying to figure out the best way to go about this.

Jumping out of the window was starting to sound like a really great plan when Francis said, without turning to him:

“Come in, Brésil, and sit down. You must be hungry, no?”

“I- listen, about- yesterday, I didn't-”

Francis raised his eyes, and the words died in Luciano's lips. Fine, he didn't want to apologize anyway. And it's not like Francis himself was a model of good behavior when he was traveling.

Not that he did it all that much, he usually said that no place would be as good as his own house.

But still.

Feeling chastised, Luciano entered the kitchen and sat down, and then proceeded to stare at the tablecloth.

After a few moments, Francis said:

“Would you like me to brew you some coffee?”

He sounded bland enough, but Luciano flinched anyway.

“No, thank you.”

It's not like he could get up and make it himself, like Francis was totally implying he should. First, because his head hurt, and second because he knew by experience that Francis didn't let anyone touch his kitchen stuff. He'd slap Luciano's wrist if he tried.

Francis shook his head, and then took mercy on him.

“Here,” he said, getting a tiny cup from the cupboard, “Would you like sugar? Cream? Something for the head?”

“You're mad at me,” Luciano said. It sounded a lot more whiny than he meant to. “How was I supposed to know drinking was against the law? It's not like I was doing anything-”

“You were singing in the street. Loudly. At three in the morning.”

“So what? You always say Paris never sleeps, right?”

“And then you tried to undress. In the street.”

“It was hot. And I wasn't going to undress, I just wanted to take off my shirt.”

“While the police chased you down the street.”

“... I didn't want them to catch me, okay?”

Francis put the cup in front of him, and shook his head. Luciano didn't raise his face.

“And I said I was sorry.”

“So you did. And then you tried to kiss me. In front of my police force.”

“You kissed back,” Luciano mumbled.

“That, my dear, is completely beside the point. But you know your behavior was unacceptable. Don't you?”

Luciano flinched again.

He didn't think it was beside the point. At all. And Francis had been trying to grab him, as far as he could remember, so he had just... let himself be grabbed. That was all.

It had been a nice kiss, too.

And he didn't like when Francis talked down to him. Not when he was already feeling about to be grounded.

To make matters worse, Francis patted his cheek, two fingers curling under his chin, and raised his face:

“I wonder, what your very stern boss would say if she knew-”

“You won't, right?” Luciano's eyes widened with sudden panic, “Come on, man, why would you tell her, this is not an official visit or anything, I just wanted to relax and-”

“Shush, shush,” he said, his finger resting lightly against Luciano's lips. “True, it's not official. But I'm still an important business part, am I not? Or- maybe you're too grown up to care about what your older brother thinks?”

“I- what? Is that why you're mad at me? You think I'm trying to insult you?”

He had to talk around the finger still resting on his lip, and that wasn't even the worst of it, the worst was looking up at that pair of almost purple blue eyes that made him feel like he was a... well, a silly child talking nonsense. But had he got it right? Francis was thinking he didn't care anymore, just because he wasn't tripping over his feet to please him?

Where he could see it, anyway?

Also older brother since fucking when?

“Aren't you?”

“No! Of course not! I just- how would that even- ok so maybe I was stupid, but it's not like you're really feeling insulted, are you?”

“Shouldn't I be?”

This time Luciano just pouted. He turned away, escaping his soft burning touch, but Francis grabbed his chin again, more forcefully this time.

“Tell me, Brésil – I'm still a treasured partner, am I not?”

“Of course. I never said-”

“Don't mumble, petit, you're a grown up now, aren't you?”

“Why are you talking to me like that? I'm not- stop treating me like a baby!”

He got up, to make it more emphatic. It didn't work, because Francis had a few inches on him and he still had to look up, but it made him feel a little better.

“I'll just leave, alright, then you don't have to put up with me anymore, ok? I won't even drink your stupid coffee, I'll be out in less than five minutes.”

He turned to go, but, to his surprise, Francis held his arms.

“My dear,” he said, “You are a baby. You're not even three hundred yet.”

“Yes I am,” he said, hotly, because why should he count his age since the Independence, and anyway it wasn't his fault if Francis and others were ancient and he wasn't. “I mean, older than three hundred, not a baby, so stop that. And I was just having fun, but fine, I can do it home if you don't want me here.”

“Shhsh,” he said, again. “I never said that, mon bébé, did I? Of course you can have fun here. I just don't want to go rescue you at the police station.”

“I'm not a baby!”

Francis pulled him to a hug, that felt more like something a grown up would do to an unruly child, not like the sensual hugs Luciano was used to getting from him. He didn't even try to grope his butt, just rubbed his back between his shoulders. Luciano wanted to shove him away, tell him what he could do with his condescension, but it was Francis holding him against his chest and saying soft, meaningless things against his hair.

And you just didn't push Francis away. Not France - the France - not ever.

“I didn't mean to insult you,” he said, his voice muffled by Francis' shirt. “I don't know why you'd think that. It’s always you insulting me.”

“My child,” he said. This time, there was a soft trace of amusement in his voice. “We had our moments, didn't we?”

Luciano didn't answer. Now he wished he had taken the coffee, Francis was making his headache worse.

“But you know I've always seen you as my precious little brother.”

“... yeah, right.”

“What was that, cher?”

“Don't you cher me, you know I'm right. I don't know why you're trying to- to guilt-trip me, but I know you don't- my head hurts, alright? I want to sleep.”

He tried to escape the embrace, but Francis' arms tightened around him.

“You don't believe you're precious?”

Well, he was asking, right? And Luciano knew he was being played like a fiddle, but he walked into it anyway.

“To you? Of course not, you know I'm not, so stop that? Let me go, I want to go to bed.”

“Silly, silly child,” Francis said. Now yes, he looked very amused, a soft smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “Here. I'll take you to bed, then.”

“I- what?”

Francis let go, his hand sliding down Luciano's arms to take his hand.

“You are right, mon petit. You need to sleep.”

Luciano let himself be led back to the room, feeling even more confused. Maybe Francis was doing it on purpose. Trying to get him off balance for his own dark unknown reasons.

“You're not even mad,” he said, “Right? You're just making fun of me.”

“Never, dear. Now, let's look at you.”

He stopped in the middle of the room, still holding Luciano's hand.

“You need a good shower, before you can go to bed.”

“What? I don't! I had a shower before coming here and I'm perfectly-”

“That was when, love? Yesterday or the day before?”

Luciano was glad he didn't blush easily, because he could feel his cheeks getting warm.

“Shut up! I shower more than you, and you know that, so I don't-”

Francis kissed him. It was a slow, soft kiss, that just brushed his lips against Luciano's, but shocked him silent anyway.

He watched as Francis started to undo the button of his pants.

“I can do it myself, you know,” he said, as the fabric fell in a puddle around his ankles. It came out more sulkily than he wanted to, and Francis smiled at him.

Next came his shirt, and then the underwear. He put his hand on Francis' shoulder for support, and then he was naked in the middle of the room.

And he couldn't decide how to feel about it, couldn't do anything but stay frozen there, almost gritting his teeth. And even then he knew he was getting hard from it, from how Francis was treating him, and he could tell Francis was thinking the same thing, that familiar glint in his eyes, so why was he talking like this-

“My sweet, precious child,” Francis said, and then laughed, a soft, rich laughter that should have made him feel better but didn't. “Don’t think so much. Come here.”

He put his arms around him, led him to the bathroom, and Luciano went, his cheeks still hot from this mix of humiliation and... whatever it was that seemed to coil somewhere down is his belly.

“I'm not,” he said, “I know what you want.”

Francis turned on the faucet – that weird one you had to turn around until you could find the hot water, Luciano hated it – and smiled again.

“Oh? And what do you want? Besides giving you a shower and putting you in bed?”

“I don't need you to do that!”

Francis held his arm, guiding him under the water jet. He picked a small mesh sponge and liquid soap from a cabinet.

“Turn around, dear. Yes, like this.”

He put his hand on Luciano's waist, to... help him turn, apparently. Luciano stood with his back to him, and then Francis started to rub his back, slowly, working up a nice layer of lather.

It felt good, actually. Luciano had to admit it. And a little more normal, the way he'd expect things to go with Francis, even if he was still a little jittery, still unsure.

He didn't want to be treated like a child. It was the worst – no, the second worst thing they could do. The worst was to treat him like he didn't matter, like he was not as good as them or good enough for them - like Francis always did and had always done and was doing just now and-

“Feels nice, doesn't it?” he pulled Luciano closer, making him stumble a step back. Even the way he spoke – all the words seeming to blend together in a silky stream – made Luciano shiver.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what, petit?”

“Doing this! Talking to me like this! I'm not-”

“Weren't you acting like a child, yesterday? You think that was the proper way to behave in someone else's home?”

“You don't- how can you-”

“Is it, Luciano?”

And he had the nerve to look stern, holding him under the shower, the stupid sponge in his other hand, looking at Luciano like he was still a baby.

“I was just having fun, that's all, if you think I'm really that precious you're really not showing, you know, you should- and it's not like you try to, to respect me when you're visiting me, but I never complain, do I, I always try to treat you well but it's always like this, and then you – I don't- I shouldn't have come.”

He tried to leave, but Francis held him tight, then pulled him into his arms again, Luciano's wet, dripping chest against his fine shirt, his hand going to the back of Luciano's head.

“Is it, Luciano?”

It took him half a second to remember the question, and then he struggled against Francis hold.

“I'm not going to apologize to you,” he said. It was almost a snarl, “I didn't do anything wrong, you're just messing with me and I don't like it, I came here to rest and-”

The slap was completely unexpected, Francis palm coming down hard on his butt cheek. This time he struggled harder, but Francis' arm tightened around his shoulder, and all he got for his trouble was another slap.

He could escape. He knew that. He could shove him, could punch him, or laugh it off, or do anything that wasn't grab his clothes and bury his face in Francis' neck and whimper.

“I won't apologize to you,” he said, “You're a fucking hypocrite, that's what you are-”

“Quiet, child.”

He rubbed Luciano's neck with one hand, the other cupping his butt. Luciano tensed, expecting another slap, but Francis just held him close.

“You hate it so much, don't you?” he chuckled, the sound tickling Luciano's ear, “Being reprimanded. You hate it, and you struggle like a little child. Don't you?”

“It's not fair,” Luciano whimpered, “I just wanted to rest, I didn't want this, I didn't-”

“Shhhhh,” he kissed his earlobe, then bit it softly, “You can rest, petit, trust me-”

“No! No I don't, I never- you don't mean that, you're just-”

“Making fun of you?”

For a second Luciano was so, so sure that he was, that he half expected him to burst out laughing, to see everyone he knew entering the bathroom to point at him and laugh, he had nightmares with that – except in them he wasn't naked and Francis wasn't holding him, actually, but they would point at him and laugh and-

“I'm not. I'm here. You're my sweet little brother, aren't you? And you don't know what to do with your pride.”

“I'm not proud.”

“You are. More than you know. More than you can imagine. So proud that you'll hurt yourself over it.”

“Francis- I'm not-”

“Do you want to please me, my child? Do you want to please your older brother?”

Luciano finally raised his head. His eyes were burning, he was almost shaking, the water still hitting his back in warm smoky jets. He moved fast, his hand going between Francis' legs to hold his hard erection.

“I do please you,” he said. It sounded too desperate, even to himself. “I know that- you know that. Even if you despise everything else I do, I-”

“Despise you?”

Francis' close his hand around Luciano's, raising it slowly, softly, and then pressed a kiss to the back of his fingers.

“Who says I despise you?”

“You do! You think I'm an idiot, and you treat me like I'm- I don't- I just wanted to rest, that's all, visit some friends and rest and I keep forgetting I don't have friends, that no one here likes me, I should have stayed home and-”

Another kiss swallowed the flood of words. This time it was a real kiss, Francis' mouth claiming his, forcing his head back, a kiss he could hold on to.

“Come here,” Francis said, when it ended. He turned off the faucet, and draped a white, fluffy towel over his shoulder. “Come here.”

Why had he said all that? He didn't want to. He didn't want Francis to know.

“And now you torment yourself, isn't it, child?”

He rubbed his shoulders, then his chest, and Luciano stood there and let Francis dry his body, feeling miserable and ashamed and excited and everything at the same time, he was still hard and he had no idea why, because all this was awful and embarrassing and this was the worst day of his life, and he felt like crying.

“I'm sorry,” he said, when Francis squatted to dry his legs. “I'm just- can I blame this on the hangover? And on you acting like a freak?"

“You're still going to bed, my dear,” Francis said, with a smile.

That thing again, like hot iron melting in his stomach. He should kick him, or something, make him stop. Do something besides looking away and sulking.

Francis got up, and then he raised his chin again.

“Tell me. Tell me what you’re thinking, you'll feel better.”

“I don't-”

“Tell me, child. Trust me.”

“Of course I do,” Luciano said, the words rushing out like a fucking river, “Of course I want to please you, who doesn't, I mean, you're- but no one can, right? At least I can't, I never could, I come here and then all you do is treat me like I'm just a nuisance and then you remember I got money and you stop for a while but it doesn't last because you just don't think I'm-”

“Are you still talking about me, dear? Or about all of us? Are you talking about France, or about Europe? Or maybe about yourself?”

“I don't care! I just - how can you hit me, who do you think you are?”

This would have worked better if he didn't sound on the verge of tears, and if he weren't still here, looking stupid with the towel in his shoulders and trying to talk to fucking France. The France.

Who put his arm around his shoulders and led him to the bed, letting the towel fall on the floor. Luciano stumbled after him, too tired to try to understand it.

Francis pulled the covers away, and waited. Luciano didn't resist it. He lied down, naked as he was. To his surprise, Francis pulled the covers over his body up to his neck.

“... what are you doing?”

“I'm tucking my younger brother in, what do you think?”

“That's it? Now I sleep? You won't fuck me?”

He made his best to say it like an insult, like he was spitting out the word. Francis chuckled.

“Do you want me to, child?”

“Stop calling me-”

“Do you want me to fuck you, my proud, bitter child?”

He just stared. Francis shook his head.

“Scoot over.”

Luciano did it, still silent. Francis took off his shoes, then his wet shirt, and slid under the covers by his side, his arm enveloping Luciano's waist, his hand going to rest over his buttocks. The sting of the slap was barely a memory now, but Luciano could still recall it – if he tried-

“I'm here,” Francis said, kissing his forehead. Luciano closed his eyes.

“What are you doing to me? I thought- if you care so much-”

“Am I hurting you, my dear?”

“Stop talking like this!”

Francis kissed him again. “You hurt so much,” Francis whispered, when it ended, “And you hate yourself for it. You hate yourself when you hurt. And you hate us, because we can't make it better.”

It was so, so unfair. It almost made him want to get up, to throw away the covers and leave, and-

“No, my proud, bitter baby. I'll stop. You're so wounded, that I hurt you whenever I touch you, isn't that right?”

“You hit me. It's not my fault that-”

“I will, again.”

“... what?”

“My silly, silly child. I'll take you over my knee and give you a lesson if I have to, to make you understand-”

“Understand what-” and ignore the way his blood was rushing all to his head, how hard it was to glare at Francis with that image playing around in his head, with the mix of disgust and lust and desire coiling in his stomach.

Francis smiled. He ran his fingers through his hair, combing the dump curls, and Luciano gave up. This was too strange, too surreal, too confusing, he still had a headache and sleeping it off was a great idea, the best way to escape all this and wake up tomorrow hoping it would turn out to be a dream.

So he put his head in Francis' chest – if he was his bigger brother, if Luciano was his precious child, then he could, right? Could seek comfort after being spanked and led on and could rest his head over Francis' heartbeat, his leg going around Francis' and his erection still very present pressing against his thigh.

That chuckle again, soft and musical and so much in control, above him in every possible way.

“Understand you're not alone,” he whispered, and then kissed Luciano's hair.

So they would do something besides sleeping after all, good. Good. Maybe that would fix this- thing, this stupid mess that Francis had made of his head and his emotions. Maybe.

Still, he shut his eyes as tightly as he could, pressing his head against his chest, and for a second there he was a child waiting for approval, and Francis – the Francis – was kissing his hair, whispering softly French words in his ear.


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