France’s flat spreads out before him in an indefinite stretch of white and black and numerous shades of grey, and there is hardly any object in here that is not unduly large. He’s exaggerating, a size whore, England always tells him, overcompensating. France claims he is not alone (“But surely, Angleterre, think, I cannot be the only one appreciating a good size, ‘a?”).
Elbows crossed and shoulders propped against the frame, England hangs about the door. He’s watching as France strolls, crouches down beside his hi-fi. There he fidgets about for a moment until the entire thing’s lights kick in at once and music rolls out of the darkness.
It’s something slow and grave and England hopes to god it’s not Édith Piaf. He sucks in breath between his teeth, swears, “I’ll be out in a second if I find out it’s her,” but the frog lacks decency, as always, and does not even turn to face him. So very much like him, England thinks.
He moves his own arm to switch on the lights; his palm does little more than brush France's wallpaper. It takes another go to find the switch. Nothing happens.
“The bulb’s broken,” France informs him and England looks up. The frog’s standing by the table with his back towards him and loosing his tie with two quick tugs before he flings it over a chair. The tie’s smooth fabric makes it slide down, however, and the notion of reprimanding France to catch it entertains him for a moment. But France sees the sliding himself. He’s quick to react, quicker than England would have assumed he is.
And there goes his chance to complain.
Cufflinks clatter to the tabletop-glass, because France likes to watch England going down on him under the table with dessert melting on his tongue-and then England’s eyes follow the long and slender line of France’s legs walk across the room.
The French doors of his French balcony (England rolls his eyes) are already opened a crack but France pulls them open all the way, and then there’s a cool breeze creeping past. France’s hair sways along as wraps his hands around the railing, leans over it.
The dim lights of the lanterns outside paint it in grim colours, like dirt, or night and it’s dull where it ought to shine. It reminds England of his own hair, which doesn’t suit someone as bright as France.
A group of men and women passes by down on the street, their laughter carried away on the gentle wind, and a car pulls round the corner. Its lights illuminate the room; all the shadows begin to dance.
It’s almost like they are alive and reaching out for him. England feels uneasy. He follows France suit or intends to, but he’s not even half across the room when the frog’s voice slurs, “Bring something to drink before you come, cher. Wine would be nice. Don’t you agree?”
“Go screw yourself,” England says at first and then, all but a second later, finds himself turning on his heels. It’s not for the frog, he tells himself. The frog’s wine’s a damn fine brand of beverage. He does it for himself.
--
The wine rack is full, organised by region, flavour and body, and that’s why England appreciates it to begin with: it’s easy to choose a bottle because it’s easy to find the strongest.
To choose a wine glass that is not merely akin to but fully in accordance with France’s tastes is like breaking down the rules of cricket to someone that will not sit still, Italy in short, however, and England is not going to pretend to bother. He goes for the biggest one he finds, one that shines and breaks the light. He fills it to the brim, but a tremor goes through his hands, makes him spill some wine.
A thin rill runs down the curve of the glass. England imagines France’s fingers cupped around it, crimson liquid spreading over them like the red of his flag. America’s always telling him he’s one crazy-symbolism obsessed bastard, but so is someone else, England knows.
England chokes on a strangled groan, swallows it, and brings the glass to his lips and thinks of these fingers curled tight around his cock.
He nearly forgets to switch off the kitchen lights when he leaves.
The touch of ghostly fingers all but fades when England returns and doesn’t go away when France reaches out to take the wine glass from him, either, but when their fingers brush, there’s a shiver running down his spine that goes right down to his balls. His cock twitches, and England feels blood pooling low in his crotch.
Glass held up between them, it only takes a second for France to first look at the wine then at England and a smug expression spreads across his face. “Merci beaucoup,” he says and then his fingers settle over the back of England’s hand (who barely catches himself saying, Avec plaisir, après troi, because, obviously, France already helped himself and secondly, England will be damned to start speaking Frog now.)
France lifts the glass in a toast then takes a small sip. England has nowhere else to look but France and so he permits his gaze to drop.
Another sip, longer and slower this time. England swallows the whimper caught high in his throat, and gets hard just thinking about it. France sucks cocks the same way he does everything else—sloppy, lazy, and bloody fucking well.
“You really are horny, my dear Angleterre,” France says all smug and smooth and plastering a cocky smirk across his face. He lowers the glass.
England takes it, snarls, “Oh, do shut up, will you,” and brings the glass to his own mouth. Watches France watch him. “You’re saying you aren’t?” he says, breathes, and it steams up the glass. Goes on, “You are, I dare say, every bit as horny as I am,” drags his tongue along the rim, elicits a small whimper, “if not more so.”
France swallows; out of the corner of his eyes, England sees his Adam’s apple quiver. Just a little push, a little more pressure, and France’s falling.
France’s breath merely hitches as England’s mouth hovers over the same spot France’s lips have touched before, but his eyes widen and his nostrils flare when England presses open-mouthed kisses against it, when his tongue moves up and down and pulls and sucks.
He’s got him. Right there, right then.
Seconds tick by, and then France reaches out―catches England’s wrist. Since England isn’t saying no, France forces his arm down and the wine glass with it. England raises an eyebrow, fixes his gaze sharply on the bastard. “What comes next? A slow and tender kiss, I presume?”
However, he’s still not saying no, England knows and France knows he does, and so France leans in close. There’s the tickling sensation of lips brushing over his cheek and coming uncomfortably close to his mouth, and England decidedly moves his head in another direction to evade what’s coming next, or supposed to be at least.
“Don’t be like that. There is nothing wrong with slow and tender kissing,” France says, other hand sliding down England’s thighs. “It is making love. Only with your mouths,” he adds almost as an afterthought.
Oh, but there is, England wants to say but France’s a fast little fucker who cups his chin and claims his mouth before he’s even half-way through pointing out all the faults and errs of slow and tender love-making, and it’s precisely and most exactly not want England wants: slow, tender, deliberate and with gentle affection that makes him sick to the stomach.
France’s tongue trails along the row of his front teeth. England unclenches his jaw—and bites down. Blood, France’s discomfort comes in blood. That’s good. He likes that.
France doesn’t hiss, not really, but his nails scrape over the inside of his thighs, and they’re sharp and long even through the fabric of his suit, and all for a second they’re just there: on the inside of his thighs, not doing anything but scraping. And then they press and dig into his flesh and England does hiss.
They part—or he parts, precisely; burying the fingers of his free hand, the one not busy keeping its fingers clasped around a wine glass, in France’s hair and he pulls and tugs and yanks until the fucker yields and lets go of him.
There is something wet, hot trickling down his mouth. Probably the frog’s blood. He flicks his tongue. The blood has reached his jaw line, and England’s tongue is not long enough to reach there and lick the blood away. Unlike the frog’s, he thinks, and snorts because that’s some shit of a pun.
France smirks at that, which is vaguely more annoying than anything combined: England hates it when the bastard’s all smug and smooth and laughing when there’s nothing there for him to laugh at. Before his mouth catches up with his mind, though, the bastard has his thumb circling at the corner of his mouth. England supposes the frog’s smearing his own blood across his face. That’s just how the bugger ticks.
“Honestly, Angleterre, you have made a mess out of yourself.”
“I beg your—” England starts but France’s thumb pads his lip and that’s just so goddamn distracting. “Would you stop that already?”
But France does not stop, instead rubs his thumb forth and back. Fingers still in France’s hair, England gives his head another quick tug. “You like it rough, don’t you?” the bastard says as he withdraws his hand, replaces it with his mouth. His tongue nudges England’s lips apart.
The notion of bringing his teeth down entertains him for all of a second until England decides, wistfully and against better judgement, not to. He almost feels gracious when he doesn’t.
Another kiss, fiercer this time, with more teeth and biting than before and England’s nothing short of pleased the frog’s not kissing him like a girl again. One of France’s hands is back between his thighs.
Perhaps, England thinks as France’s hand nudges his thighs apart, knee settling between them and rubbing against his cock, this would be the time to say no. But then, the thought goes on, this is sort of awfully hard to accomplish what with France’s mouth sucking the breath out of his lungs like that. And so England says nothing—can’t say nothing—as France works his way up, hooks a finger in a belt-loop and jerks, pressing his knee hard to the bulge in his crotch.
England withdraws then, and half-groans, half-gasps in France’s face. “Stop that at once!” he pants but of course France doesn’t—won’t, only presses harder until England’s hands tremble. Judging by the stupid grimace he receives, he’s sure he has just spilled some wine over the frog’s shirt.
Chuckling, he releases his hair, drags his knuckles over the side of France’s face, who’s making a sort of exclamation of exasperation. England ignores him. Assures himself it’s Frog, reminds himself he doesn’t speak Frog, period.
Since France’s taller than he is, he has to stretch his neck slightly, but it’s worth the endeavour for he gets to trace kisses that are more teeth than tongue from jaw line up to ear. France’s eyes go a little wide at that and his mouth hangs open on short, hard breathes. Strands of smooth, soft hair frame his face. Beneath—delicate features, that bloody gorgeous face and blue eyes, they’re like ice or water, dragging him down with them.
It’s not fair France’s turning the tables even when he’s not.
England buries his face in the nape of France’s neck. And of course the bastard doesn’t get it, trust the bastard not to, and of course the bastard starts to chuckle regardless. A frustrated groan dragged up straight from the pit of his stomach, and England closes his eyes and thinks of kicking him in the balls. At least that’s something he’d get. Trust the bastard to get everything vaguely revolving around genitals.
“Now, now,” France says, other hand gently threading his hair. “You most certainly are a most peculiar being, my dear Angleterre. Terribly short-tempered and rather whimsical. And don’t take offence at my words, it’s true.”
England decides, for the peace of his mind, not to comment on that. It would have been hard to anyway as France keeps his hand busy tugging at the waistband of his pants, pulling him closer until England’s flush against his chest, fit together in a long line. The wine glass quivers in his hand, and it’s really fucking hard not to spill another load. The frog’s knee’s still pressing into his crotch. As it is, England’s preoccupied with not to giving in to the whimpers and pleas France has obviously taken into his head to reduce him to.
Their mouths brushing a second time and tongues flicking out just for a quick taste, England places the flat of his palm on France’s chest before he shoves the frog away. England likes the way France bents under him; just a little more pushing and the frog’s going to end up on the street, literally. One of France’s legs slides around the hollow of his knee. England lets go of him then, takes a step back.
It takes France a moment to regain his balance and when he seems to be standing on both of his feet again, England brings the wine between the both of them, holds it up, and announces he’s had enough of it. “Your turn,” he says when France doesn’t move to take it.
“Ah, but Angleterre—“
“Don’t you ‘Angleterre’ me. Take it.”
France takes it, regards England with a strange expression, and throws his head back and takes a long and deliberate drink.
The moan trapped at the base of England’s throat comes out as a faint hiss.
“You know what I want to do?” he asks.
“What,” France asks languidly, withdrawing only to talk. Another sip. Another time that England’s forced to watch his throat work.
“That.” He leans in to lick along the curve of France’s throat and France moans, England feels his throat vibrate, and wonders whether France's feeling teeth and long and sucking kisses that will leave marks for days to linger. He very much hopes the bastard does.
“And that,” he adds and digs his fingers into France’s waist, flips him around and then France reaches out to grab the railing, one hand cupped around it and the other holding the wine. England could do him the favour to take it and place it on the ground. He doesn’t: Let the frog suffer, he thinks, and now it’s him whose knee pushes between France’s legs, nudges them aside and his fingers that hook themselves in belt-loops.
Ho shit. Reading this has already made me incoherent, and then I checked back to see what request inspired this snarky hotness and a;sdfoiahgb YES PLEASE. *A*
... Will make a real comment later when not overcome by hotness. <3
This is some of the hottest hate!foreplay I've ever read, anon. There's going to be fisting?? *hopes* I can't wait until you post more! And more! And MORE ...
Anon, my mind is blown. This is wonderful, but I think the best part of it is the low-key eroticism that lies beneath their snark and doesn't often surface but does make its presence known all the same. I love the tension between them, and I can't wait to see how it will develop further ♥
Pelvic bone sharp against his fingers, two options come to mind: firstly, he could make it compassionate, sensual, make it a six or seven on France’s arousal scale. There are always alternatives though, and so, secondly: make quick work of button and zip and don’t give a fuck about France at all. A most enthralling idea, he must say.
France widens his stance to prevent trousers and pants from dropping to the ground, catches them at his thighs. England snorts as he tears them down then ducks his head: France’s accuracy is pathetic. Always has been pathetic, and is not going to change now. No, especially not now, England muses, the bastard is leaning over the railing with his back towards him. It’s likely that France’s incompetence increases tenfold.
Winner gets to grab the other’s thigh, and it’s England that wins. It is bland that way, there’s no fun in just grabbing, and bending rules in his favour is almost as satisfying as having the frog bent over, so England’s on his knees in an instant and nips and licks and pinches from outside to inside and from bottom to top, and traces his tongue here and there—everywhere but France’s cock. The most attention France’s cock receives is a blow through England’s teeth.
At last, he nuzzles nose to balls. France cringes but England has him firm in his grip. He traces tiny lines with the edge of his thumbnail across the frog’s thigh to remind him of that. There’s soft and tender flesh just beneath the tip of his thumb. It seems to England that France’s skin takes on the colour of marble against the night.
It’s a lovely feeling to have France squirming, thighs sliding against his ears and rubbing along the nape of his neck with every failed attempt to squeeze them shut, trapping England’s head between them. England has never delivered a blowjob from behind. It must be awkward, or really fucking hot.
If he were to reach out to roll France’s balls in the flat of his palm, he’d lose. England’s strong, but so is France and keeping the bastard’s limbs in place certainly requires both of his hands.
England inhales, purses his lips, exhales again. He cranes his neck further; France’s thighs almost rest on his shoulders now. If the bastard decides to flop down, he will send them both crashing down. England credits France with enough common sense not to.
It would get messy, probably: wine might spill, likely be joined by blood drizzling from his nose. The railing is made of metal but his nose of bones.
France cherishes his carpet, and its stainless whiteness. (England is not so sure it will remain so at dawn, or until they reach dawn. The night’s long, and he is hard and France must be harder.)
The strain on his neck is somewhere between pain and pleasure and England welcomes that sweet ache. France’s balls lie heavy on top of his forehead. England pauses and waits, and, finally, France moves, moves along. France rises up on his tiptoes and England lifts his head as his tongue crawls over what little of France’s cock he gets to reach from this twisted angle. France’s cock tastes like sweat and salt and sex.
France’s thighs tremble. A soft gasp carried away on the wind, and England releases the frog’s legs. He gets up.
When his eyes catch sight of the wine glass France’s clutching on to, England puts forth his own hand. As he reaches out, his fingers brush France’s jaw and the sudden contact jars with his own cock.
England leans in until his head rests upon the frog’s shoulders. Rubbing their cheeks against each other, sucking in the friction of tiny hair on skin gliding against skin, England permits the breath held in his throat to drop into a slur and words stumble from his mouth. “There is more to show.”
Lips press flat against his cheek, and then France breathes into his ear. Shenanigans in English, part in French, and some of it rhymes.
England says so and curls his fingers around France’s wrist; twists that arm backward just enough so he can take a drink. France complies wordlessly, but a sigh falls from his lips.
The wine slides down smoothly, leaving him dizzy and light-headed. England closes his eyes, inhales the scent of France’s hair, and embraces the warmth that spreads outward from low in his stomach.
They share another moment like this; France’s arm bent and England sipping, before England lets go to throw his arms around the frog’s waist, to keep him in place, steady. Less than a heartbeat later and England is grinding his cock against France’s arse.
Sent forward by England’s sudden thrusts and pinned by England’s weight, France groans as his bones collide with the railing’s sharp edge. Knuckles turning white with the effort to steady himself, the wine glass quivers dangerously in his fingers.
France’s legs tremble as fingers push crudely between either sides of his arse. A strangled moan begins to take on shape. England hears it, and he snarls at France to turn his head so he can claim his mouth. England nudges France’s lips apart when France turns his head, crooks his fingers, and waits for the moan to escape.
It comes, eventually―low and dark and needy and England sucks it in and feels it glide down like wine, intoxicating like France, and England craves more.
“You want me, don’t you?” No moan this time, but ragged breathing and shallow whimpers, which are almost as good as moaning.
“Tight around my fingers, tight around my cock, making you writhe beneath me like the whore you are, yes. Yes, I suppose it is safe to assume that I do want you indeed.”
France chuckles. “Ah, we reached confession time already? Très bien, Angleterre, très bien. Want to indulge in my fantasies?”
England grunts, thumb circling at the edge of France’s hole, barely nudging forward. England waits just long enough for France’s breath to even before he shoves his thumb inside.
France moans, shamelessly, and throws his head back until his forehead scrapes the slant of England’s jaw.
He says, “You are covered in leather, from head to toe. I tie you up. Not the tedious cuffed-to-headboard stuff. The real stuff. Tied from wrist to ankle. A hogtie would suit you with your elbows and head bent, or would you rather bent your knee fully and the rope tight around your knee and ankle?”
A soft hiss slices through the air as England pulls his fingers out, and then quickly slams them back into France again. France moans beautifully as they push for entrance.
England thinks of adding another finger or perhaps two, his hand surely would go in all the way, but England wonders about his other hand. He’s doing the frog dry and France is so fucking tight, muscles clenching down from all sides, his own cock might as well explode before he gets the chance to pound the bastard senseless.
France inhales sharply before he goes on. “I’d think of gagging you but I wouldn’t. I want your mouth open,” a sigh, “and wide for my dick and not tight, ah, shu―fuck,” a whimper and England’s fingers twisting, “shut. Shoving an open mouth gag into that wet hole of yours is what I’d do, right after I put a collar around your neck. Comes with nipple clamps,” a soft moan, and France’s head rolling back against England’s jaw, and little dots of painpleasurelight blur his view, “I’m yanking so hard at your chains I’ll have you choking on breath within a second. Yanking some more because I adore the gagging sounds you utter,” and here it’s France chocking on breath as England flexes his fingers, adds a fourth, and England doesn’t think anyone chokes as beautiful as France does. “Of course, mon cher, I know how you roll, know how you like being stretched open and, ah,” France’s arse is dragging his fingers effortlessly in, well, almost, a little push and pull is needed too, “w-wide. I’ll insert beads, one by one, into your tiny ass until you’re reduced to a pleading mess,” that is astonished at such blatant disregard for tenses, England thinks but France says, “begging to be bent over and fucked hoarse. Perhaps I would feel gracious and really just fuck you raw. You know how much this turns me on.”
England does know but tries his best to focus on fingering France. Yet his mind wanders off, and when the picture of himself stretched open on both ends gets all too vivid—when he almost wants to reach for his nipples and twist them and starts to taste France’s cock on his tongue, arse beginning to ache to be filled—he gives his balls a desperate slap.
It doesn’t go unnoticed, though. France rocks his hips backward, forces England’s hand nearly to grind into his own cock. England clenches his jaw and traps the growl that is half-way out anyway.
Fingertips digging into the soft flesh everywhere around his fingers, England says, “You wank to it?”
It shouldn’t come as surprise. And yet it somehow does. “You honestly wank to the mental image of having me hog or frog tied?”
“Among other things, yes,” France replies conversationally. “You of all people should know that, you closet pervert. Does it turn you on to imagine yourself in such positions?” And he adds, almost casually, “Angleterre.”
It does, it fucking does, but England feels no need to share that. He simply pretends to miss France’s remark. “What else do you wank to?”
‘To a lot of dubious things,’ is the answer, and England knows as much, so he cuts in and corrects himself: “By which I mean things I don’t know already.”
France’s quiet for a moment. Whether lost in thought or just teasing, England cannot fathom. At last, France is saying, “Well, unlike you I don’t keep a diary about shared, un-shared, and yet-to-be shared fantasies. I have no clue as to what you know and what you don’t. But there’s something else,” and here is the frog’s voice trailing off. England knows it’s because France feels the fifth finger petting his hole, and that makes him smirk a little.
When France finds his voice again he tells England there is something they exercise far too irregularly, something that gets him hard just thinking about it.
“I’m listening,” England says. There are many things getting the frog hard just thinking about them.
“Pull out your fingers and I’ll show you.”
England pulls out his fingers. England even draws up France’s clothes.
France’s smugness comes in a white flash of teeth, and England sees that huge grin through the darkness.
He holds out the wine glass for England to take and when England does that as well, he sends his fingertips on a journey across England’s cheek and down to his throat, along the curve of his Adam’s apple. They stop there, and England swallows. Fingers press on slowly until―breath and spit caught and hold, England’s mouth falls open on a wet and guttural sound.
France’s all grin and smile, and he makes a sound like he wants to say something. In the end, he doesn’t—England knows the bastard well enough to know that, “Make sure to bring the bottle with you,” is most certainly not what lies on the tip of France’s tongue.
Then he’s gone. Out of sight and off to the bedroom.
--
tbc. Stay tuned, anons! Thank you so much for your comments!
England brings the bottle, just not to the bedroom.
Leather couch stretching out beneath his back, England takes a small sip from the glass and says to hell with France’s bedroom. He’s too lazy to bend forward to remove his socks so he drags them over the leather. The other way might have been faster; it takes some time and the same motion over and over again and then once more until the fabric slides over his ankle. A half-arsed kick and his socks are on the ground.
England sighs as he stretches on France’s couch. It is a good one. Cushioning where it ought to cushion and not overwhelming with that smell peculiar to fresh leather. Oh yes, the smell is there but faint, pleasant, not strong. There is also the fragrance of night, of melancholy and tragedy clinging to it but that is just France’s perfume.
England traces the rim of the wine glass and thinks of France. Reminisces.
It occurred to England then that it has been a while now since he and France last waged war against the other, and that is a strange thought. Not at all unsettling. Rather, relaxing. Although these were not quite the words he had been looking for.
How might one describe the transfer of battlefields to bedrooms when it is not the sex that is to be highlighted? England doesn’t know. He sips his glass but no sudden insight unveils, and so England allows his thoughts to drift. England finds himself thinking of sex.
Another astonishing fact: they are on speaking terms during most of it.
Sometimes the sex is not aggressive at a―
“No,” England says because that is absurd. We most certainly do not make love.
The rustling of his sleeves as France crosses his arms gives him away. Judged by the sound he makes he must be close to the door leading to his bedroom. (Which, all things considered, proved itself a personal favourite of England’s for France’s bed reminded him of the sea. Moreover, it rocked back when fucked. It is not often but every once in a while England prefers France’s bed to the frog himself. The water splashes so nicely against his face when he comes but it never gets him wet or dirty, always keeps him warm afterward.)
France’s soft porn music still floats through the speakers. England wanders why they aren’t fucking yet. He voices his concern.
“Because, my dear, you never made it to the bedroom.”
Fair enough, yet: “I want it on the couch.”
“Absolutely not!” France manages to sound horrified at the mere thought of fucking on his precious couch but he fails at banning lust and arousal from his voice. It quivers. England isn’t surprised. He presses on, “Weren’t you the one who wanted me covered in leather? Well, there you are. Help yourself.”
He motions down his body, and remembers all movement is either lost in darkness or distance. He pads a spot just beneath him then, loud enough for France to hear the teasing sound of flesh on leather. France’s voice drops to a soft murmur. He’s still complaining.
England sets the glass aside, winds on the couch. Brings his hands down. France’s trail of complains comes to a halt. He is listening. Good.
England smiles when he discards trousers, and feels that smile broadening into a grin when his belt clatters to the ground. “You could have tied me up with it,” he says.
France says nothing, and so England adds, “I’m naked, hips down. Don’t tell me you don’t want me like this.”
England’s not sure what did it in the end but that was not what mattered. No, what mattered was that feet strolled and a moment later a hand touched his hair and the bastard crouched next to him. “I’ll charge you with the expenses.”
A thumb pressing against the corner of his mouth, and England laughs. “My bad, I do not feel not the slightest inclination to assent.”
The thumb’s gone and so is France’s hand—or so he thinks, at least. It takes England a second, or perhaps two, to notice the warmth spreading on his forehead is the flat of France’s palm resting there. There’s the thumb again, stroking; brushing strands of hair aside.
France’s voice is honey thick when he speaks, emotions slipping along. England is not sure if France meant them to be heard (is not sure he wants them to be said aloud). France tells him to stay lying on his back. “It will be more comfortable for you,” he says.
England closes his eyes, cradles within France’s caress. He remains silent and therein lies his consent.
A female voice, but another as the one up until now, carried to his ears. “Oh god,” England croaks, and his own voice is hoarse, hoarse and lost and slipping through his fingers. It is a feeling he knows all too well. One that threatens to consume his souls, consume his very essence. It is not lust. It is worse.
It is wrong.
The voice warbles away and England aims to hit but France’s finger curl around his wrist, and the bastard leans in close—is kissing him.
It’s so clichéd England wants to puke: kissing to Édith Piaf. At night, in the dark.
And he still hasn’t said no.
It’s him who breaks the kiss but France that turns round for the wine glass. He takes a drink, quick and fast, and puts it down again.
As soon as the wine is on the table, England catches France’s wrist this time, thumb is digging hard into palm. Nails dig into skin as well; that is wonderful: England presses harder. France’s fingers fold over his thumb.
When England brings his other hand to smack France’s knuckles it is by accident that his fingers touch France’s nails, or what should be left of them. France’s nails trimmed down to such a length. It dawns on him, then. And they had been so short the entire time. How could he have not noticed?
England’s voice is calm and controlled but his finger fingers clutch too tightly on to France’s wrist. “You’ve planned this all along.”
Inhaling, he lets go of France. France moves, probably to caress his wrist.
Yes, it dawns on him. Slowly, but steadily, it dawns on him.
Perhaps it is a similar thought that makes France brace both his hands besides England’s head, or another altogether. England could feel them just beneath his ears. When he moved, they touched.
“Do you want it?” France says and England notes the frog’s hands aren’t shaking, and his voice is not quivering. There is no lust in it, either. Just curiosity, and—England wishes there wouldn’t—tenderness. Concern. “You want this, right?”
Do I, England thinks when France raises from the floor and a knee settles between his thighs, trapping him. “A little fun,” France continues, “You won’t say no to a little fun, won’t you?”
“A little fun,” England says as if he is really thinking about it, pros and cons and all that shit, and turns his head so that one side of his face rests on the back of France’s hand. He feels knuckles under his cheekbone.
England shifts, slides an arm around France’s waist, and rolls his hips. That is answer enough, at least to him. If the bastard’s not graced with an actual frog’s brain, he should be able to make something out of it, he thinks.
France hips roll back in response. Excellent, the frog’s not quite as dumb as one.
“And since you trimmed your nails,” and he thinks, you fucker, “I suppose the pleasure is all mine? Will be all mine?”
“All yours,” France agrees when his knee presses into England’s cock. “The fun’s all yours, mon cher. Think you can handle that?”
France’s shirt rustling again. There are still knuckles hard against his bone, but England assumes the other hand must be gone, and when, all but a second later, a palm rests flat on his belly, the riddle is solved on its own.
France fingers are skilled; they nearly make an art out of unbuttoning his shirt. France doesn’t let him wait long and then there are teeth at the hollow of his throat, dragging gasps and strangled whimpers out of the pit of his stomach before he’s got the time to clamp his mouth shut.
France laughs. “I forgot you like to like to be talked dirty to. How’s about that: come and get hard for me, moan for me,” he adds, “I want you noisy.”
If the hand wasn’t there, England tells himself, if France’s goddamn hand wouldn’t caress his belly like one pets cats, or if France’s bloody fucking knee wouldn’t rock against his cock, then he’d be able to think of something to snap back. As it is now, however, there is too much friction, too much rubbing and petting and feeling good going on. His mind barely works on consecutive thinking.
Therefore, England does the next best thing that comes to mind: he pants―and France bends down, claims his mouth, and sucks in breath and sound.
England’s nails scrape over France’s hips, and feels jutting bone just beneath the tips. France’s tongue licks along his bottom lip, thumb flirting at his belly button.
“Do you know that when I’m alone,” France’s breath is hot against his mouth, hot against his face, thumb outlining belly button and England bites down on his lip—or France’s lip, he doesn’t care. (It must have been his own lip, though, because France withdraws, begins to lick a line from the corner of his mouth down to his throat, over his Adam’s apple, down, down, down.)
And he goes on: “I lie on this couch, on my stomach, to be exact, eyes closed,” (and he hesitates, mouth on the slope of England’s shoulder, hooks his thumb into England’s belly button), “I think of you,” (teeth scraping over his collarbone and England’s eyelids flutter), “My face’s down, I inhale the scent of leather. My fingers around my dick, and I give it a quick tug, inhale more leather. And with closed eyes and fingers squeezing my dick, it’s a wonderful scent.”
The pressure against his cock is almost unbearable and the circling motion of France’s finger inside his belly button distracting at best. England forces his fingers to uncurl: they would leave beautiful marks on France’s hips, certainly, and complete those left by the railing just nicely. A pity, almost: England mustn’t give the bloody frog the satisfaction of letting him know just how unbearable France’s touches are.
The marks he is leaving are the frog’s yardstick. He knows that much. Also knows France’s expression must be smug right now, and England’s almost glad it’s pitch-dark. France’s expression is hard to make out.
France’s mouth works up to the slope of his shoulder and bites down the same moment the bastard withdraws his thumb and instead brings his palm down on England’s belly, hard, right above the bladder.
England yelps, tries to sit up and push the bloody frog away but France is faster―tugs his other hand away from under his head, presses it against his chest and pushes him down again, makes him stay there. France is heavy even though he does not push with all his weight. England’s mouth hangs open on ragged gasps. He barely manages to snap, “Are you out of your mind, you dolt!”
France’s all smile and grin now, and it is so fucking wide that it stands out against the dark.
If he wasn’t short on breath he’d wipe it off. As it is, now, though, he decidedly says to hell with not giving the frog the extra satisfaction of leaving marks―and stretches until he feels France’s chest, feels his way around until he finds what he is looking for. It’s not particularly hard to find them, not when they are as erect as that.
Caught between thumb and forefinger, England twists both of France nipples, twists the shirt’s fabric along. France draws in a sharp cry. “Eye for an eye,” he tells France, “we’re even.”
France’s voice trails off in a hiss, and England says, “I believe you haven’t finished with your story yet?”
France shifts on top of him, knee still rubbing against his cock, fabric against tender skin and friction that sparkles behind closed eyelids. “No, I haven’t and if you don’t stay down there, I won’t. And, cher, by that I mean keep your perverted hands to yourself.”
“And why, pray tell, can you touch but I can’t?”
“Because that’s cheating,” France says and grabs his wrists and England lets him, “because that’s my couch your idle limbs are sprawled out on, because that means I’m the one who gets to make the rules, and because you’re a cheating whore, that’s why.”
England says, “Savvy,” and laughs but he’s the only one who gets the joke and his laughter soon fades. “So,” he says, as France makes him lower his hands. “Your story.”
“Yes, right,” and France’s mouth is back on his shoulder and one of his hand’s still pressed flat against his belly, but the other runs down his thigh, cups England’s cock while France’s knee rubs from the other end.
France says he wants England to close his eyes. England complies with that request; the sensation increases, and England presses backward, rolls his hips. The hand is gone then and the knee stops right away.
Forcing the protest that is about to escape down his throat again, England lies still and waits.
Seconds tick by, and when France makes use of hand and knee again, it is only to nudge England’s thighs further apart but not to touch his cock. England’s determined not to but old habits never die, and he finds himself hissing at France long before brain catches up with mouth. “Would you get on already?”
Hands caress his body, and so fucking slow―France’s playing the tease now, tracing circles, rubbing here and there, everywhere, just not his cock. On their way down to the cleft of his arse, they leave his cock out entirely.
“Well, the story is this,” France says, and England feels a thumbnail scraping at the edge of his hole, “my face’s down on the couch so I can pretend it’s not my couch I smell but the scent of leather tight around,” the tip of France’s thumb pressing for entrance, and England’s breath hitches at the intrusion, “tight around your dick, your waist, your legs, your throat. You’re wearing a collar, and the leash’s tight around my fingers. I give it a tug when in reality it’s my dick I’m tugging senseless.”
And, oh, the mental image’s there, and it’s so bloody ridiculous. England snorts because that’s so France, that bloody size whore.
“You are not that huge,” he says. It takes more than a second for that bloody idiot to grasp the reference, though, but when he does, England feels the thumb crooking inside him. “Shut up,” France huffs, and England’s chest heaves with suppressed laughter, sends a shiver down his spine as France’s finger shakes within him.
A second finger pushing in and a howl falls from his lips, because, Christ, France’s fucking him dry, the bloody bugger; his arse’s still trying accommodate France’s thumb.
More stretch, more burning, it’s too much, he’s got to spread his legs. Means to tell France but when he opens his mouth the fucker leans in to steal a kiss. It’s irritating, and England finds himself licking his lips.
France’s knees keep his thighs trapped together, though, and there is no way England can wriggle free. He tries to—and makes France’s finger sliding further into him.
England’s hands twist, fingers gliding off smooth leather. He sighs as France’s fingertips press against tender flesh. With that stretch it’s two steps from pleasure. England presses backward.
France’s leaning in again, lips brushing the lobe of England’s ear and France says, “I’ll go get some lube.” He places a kiss on England’s forehead as he draws his fingers out to get up.
As he turns to head for the bedroom, England grabs his wrist. A startled look, but France’s eyes shine so bright in the dark, so beautiful. He catches his breath and smirks, says, “Get down and give me a proper kiss, bastard.”
--
Slick fingers spreading him, and France saying: “There is still more to The Story,” (as they haven taken to call it by now) and England feels the twist in his gut winding tighter. “I’m listening,” he mumbles. England’s voice is failing him and his thighs tremble with the effort to hold still, not to spread wider, or slam together.
Just as France is cold and slick inside (despite his bests efforts to warm the lube, England gives him credit for that) him right now, England wonders, he must be hot and tight around the bastard. The mere thought drags a low groan from his clenched lips.
It seems to be to France’s liking too, because the bastard licks his own lips as he curls und uncurls his fingers. England won’t give him another sound like this. But fuck, France’s fingers are skilled.
“As I said, you are fully dressed in leather and the leash of the collar around around your neck is in my hand. And, I believe, we have established that I tug at it when I’m really tugging at my dick, yes?”
“So we did,” England half-pants, half-gasps, and France curves his fingers deeper.
There is this wonderful sensation of being stretched wide and open, but France has hardly two fingers inside him, with lube even, and England’s beginning to doubt himself. Has it been that long since France’s fingers lust fucked him, or is his arse short of exercise?
France’s teeth nip at his earlobe and he breathes an odd mixture of sweet nothings and dirty talk into it. Between it all, he manages to go on with The Story.
“I run my thumb along the length of my dick. Then I grab it, hard, just like this,” and there’s his other hand closing around England’s cock then, and England throws his head back, bites on his lip, “and I squeeze it. Slow, long strokes.”
England’s nostrils flare as he breathes in deeply and again, and he clamps one hand over his mouth, the other looking for hold. It’s becoming hard to lie still with France inside him and around him; patterns shift and swirl and the world becomes a blur of black and night and flash of France’s bright blue eyes.
France’s hand releases his cock. Same fingers catching his ankle and bringing the ball of his foot to rest on France’s shoulder, and his arse almost drawing France’s finger further in as a result, and France kissing the tip of his toes, and England realises how much he wants this.
England isn’t aware of the soft moan falling from his lips until France says, “Oui, like that. I want you noisy.”
England is about to tell him to go and fucking shove his noise up his arse, but his snarl gets lost in a long line of grunts and groans as France’s flexing his fingers, and he feels so fucking stuffed and it’s so wrong and good, and oh god, it’s only the third finger.
He feels light-headed, thoughts scrambled. Fingertips twisting, stretching, and exploring the inside of his arse, pressing and pushing everywhere they touch, France’s sending him high and higher. Orgasm’s there, building up, just outside his reach.
Arching his back and hips rocking hard to meet with the steady push and shove of France’s fingers, the notion of ordering the frog to pull out at once and to see to seat his own arse down on England’s cock instead becomes rather tempting.
Fingers of one hand twisting uselessly in leather he won’t get a hold of no matter what, he clenches his eyes shut, drags his other hand down. Down to where England’s cock is throbbing, pre-come sliding down the tip of his cock. England rubs thumb and forefinger against each other, feels the thing sticky on his skin.
He’d fuck the frog dry, without lube. Perhaps he’d wet his fingers with wine, dip them in it. He’d fuck the frog rough and hard like he deserves it, jam his hand into the frog’s hole and feel around. And then he’d withdraw and let the frog lick off his fingers, lick off the wine and smell of his arse.
England’s voice comes out in a plea as he orders France to make it harder, to give him more; more pressure and stretch and burn. “You want me noisy,” he pants, “you bloody tosser make me noisy.”
France laughs, drawls, “I’m afraid I—you need more lube,” and then fingers move down instead of up, deeper, and the bastard adds, “Because, cher, your ass has no stamina. I’d split you in two if I gave you more pressure.”
--
Fingertips circling his hole, teasing, and then all sensation narrows down to slick, hard stretching. Sensitive flesh burning and England’s muscles are alive.
“Merde, Angleterre, look at that,” France says, easing his way in, and England’s reply he won’t see anything, it’s fucking dark you bloody twit, gets lost in a moan.
France’s splitting, splitting, splitting him—
It’s like France’s reaching up inside, which—Arthur muses—he is, in away, and he almost sobs, arousal and stretch and every touch soaring through his bones.
Oh shit, England thinks, it’s affection.
“Angleterre, I—” France says and England thinks, fuck fuck fuck oh fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck, he does not want to hear it. Panic rises in his chest, up his throat, he splutters, and his eyes widen and it’s like England’s body forgets how to breathe.
Something warm presses to his belly, strokes and rubs. “Breathe,” France whispers and his voice is as gentle as his palm is tender, “I need you to breathe. You won’t enjoy it if you don’t breathe. Relax, breathe. I’m here with you.”
Precisely that is the bloody fucking problem, England wants to scream.
I think... well, the deal is, I'm doing a really bad job at THINKING right now because its suddenly very very hot in here and my brain is simply displaying one of those "error" messages.
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<b>Pour le Plaisir</b> (1/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-05-29 11:54 pm (UTC)(link)Elbows crossed and shoulders propped against the frame, England hangs about the door. He’s watching as France strolls, crouches down beside his hi-fi. There he fidgets about for a moment until the entire thing’s lights kick in at once and music rolls out of the darkness.
It’s something slow and grave and England hopes to god it’s not Édith Piaf. He sucks in breath between his teeth, swears, “I’ll be out in a second if I find out it’s her,” but the frog lacks decency, as always, and does not even turn to face him. So very much like him, England thinks.
He moves his own arm to switch on the lights; his palm does little more than brush France's wallpaper. It takes another go to find the switch. Nothing happens.
“The bulb’s broken,” France informs him and England looks up. The frog’s standing by the table with his back towards him and loosing his tie with two quick tugs before he flings it over a chair. The tie’s smooth fabric makes it slide down, however, and the notion of reprimanding France to catch it entertains him for a moment. But France sees the sliding himself. He’s quick to react, quicker than England would have assumed he is.
And there goes his chance to complain.
Cufflinks clatter to the tabletop-glass, because France likes to watch England going down on him under the table with dessert melting on his tongue-and then England’s eyes follow the long and slender line of France’s legs walk across the room.
The French doors of his French balcony (England rolls his eyes) are already opened a crack but France pulls them open all the way, and then there’s a cool breeze creeping past. France’s hair sways along as wraps his hands around the railing, leans over it.
The dim lights of the lanterns outside paint it in grim colours, like dirt, or night and it’s dull where it ought to shine. It reminds England of his own hair, which doesn’t suit someone as bright as France.
A group of men and women passes by down on the street, their laughter carried away on the gentle wind, and a car pulls round the corner. Its lights illuminate the room; all the shadows begin to dance.
It’s almost like they are alive and reaching out for him. England feels uneasy. He follows France suit or intends to, but he’s not even half across the room when the frog’s voice slurs, “Bring something to drink before you come, cher. Wine would be nice. Don’t you agree?”
“Go screw yourself,” England says at first and then, all but a second later, finds himself turning on his heels. It’s not for the frog, he tells himself. The frog’s wine’s a damn fine brand of beverage. He does it for himself.
--
The wine rack is full, organised by region, flavour and body, and that’s why England appreciates it to begin with: it’s easy to choose a bottle because it’s easy to find the strongest.
To choose a wine glass that is not merely akin to but fully in accordance with France’s tastes is like breaking down the rules of cricket to someone that will not sit still, Italy in short, however, and England is not going to pretend to bother. He goes for the biggest one he finds, one that shines and breaks the light. He fills it to the brim, but a tremor goes through his hands, makes him spill some wine.
A thin rill runs down the curve of the glass. England imagines France’s fingers cupped around it, crimson liquid spreading over them like the red of his flag. America’s always telling him he’s one crazy-symbolism obsessed bastard, but so is someone else, England knows.
England chokes on a strangled groan, swallows it, and brings the glass to his lips and thinks of these fingers curled tight around his cock.
He nearly forgets to switch off the kitchen lights when he leaves.
--
Pour le Plaisir (2/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-05-30 12:09 am (UTC)(link)--
The touch of ghostly fingers all but fades when England returns and doesn’t go away when France reaches out to take the wine glass from him, either, but when their fingers brush, there’s a shiver running down his spine that goes right down to his balls. His cock twitches, and England feels blood pooling low in his crotch.
Glass held up between them, it only takes a second for France to first look at the wine then at England and a smug expression spreads across his face. “Merci beaucoup,” he says and then his fingers settle over the back of England’s hand (who barely catches himself saying, Avec plaisir, après troi, because, obviously, France already helped himself and secondly, England will be damned to start speaking Frog now.)
France lifts the glass in a toast then takes a small sip. England has nowhere else to look but France and so he permits his gaze to drop.
Another sip, longer and slower this time. England swallows the whimper caught high in his throat, and gets hard just thinking about it. France sucks cocks the same way he does everything else—sloppy, lazy, and bloody fucking well.
“You really are horny, my dear Angleterre,” France says all smug and smooth and plastering a cocky smirk across his face. He lowers the glass.
England takes it, snarls, “Oh, do shut up, will you,” and brings the glass to his own mouth. Watches France watch him. “You’re saying you aren’t?” he says, breathes, and it steams up the glass. Goes on, “You are, I dare say, every bit as horny as I am,” drags his tongue along the rim, elicits a small whimper, “if not more so.”
France swallows; out of the corner of his eyes, England sees his Adam’s apple quiver. Just a little push, a little more pressure, and France’s falling.
France’s breath merely hitches as England’s mouth hovers over the same spot France’s lips have touched before, but his eyes widen and his nostrils flare when England presses open-mouthed kisses against it, when his tongue moves up and down and pulls and sucks.
He’s got him. Right there, right then.
Seconds tick by, and then France reaches out―catches England’s wrist. Since England isn’t saying no, France forces his arm down and the wine glass with it. England raises an eyebrow, fixes his gaze sharply on the bastard. “What comes next? A slow and tender kiss, I presume?”
However, he’s still not saying no, England knows and France knows he does, and so France leans in close. There’s the tickling sensation of lips brushing over his cheek and coming uncomfortably close to his mouth, and England decidedly moves his head in another direction to evade what’s coming next, or supposed to be at least.
“Don’t be like that. There is nothing wrong with slow and tender kissing,” France says, other hand sliding down England’s thighs. “It is making love. Only with your mouths,” he adds almost as an afterthought.
Oh, but there is, England wants to say but France’s a fast little fucker who cups his chin and claims his mouth before he’s even half-way through pointing out all the faults and errs of slow and tender love-making, and it’s precisely and most exactly not want England wants: slow, tender, deliberate and with gentle affection that makes him sick to the stomach.
France’s tongue trails along the row of his front teeth. England unclenches his jaw—and bites down. Blood, France’s discomfort comes in blood. That’s good. He likes that.
France doesn’t hiss, not really, but his nails scrape over the inside of his thighs, and they’re sharp and long even through the fabric of his suit, and all for a second they’re just there: on the inside of his thighs, not doing anything but scraping. And then they press and dig into his flesh and England does hiss.
They part—or he parts, precisely; burying the fingers of his free hand, the one not busy keeping its fingers clasped around a wine glass, in France’s hair and he pulls and tugs and yanks until the fucker yields and lets go of him.
Pour le Plaisir (3/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-05-30 12:19 am (UTC)(link)France smirks at that, which is vaguely more annoying than anything combined: England hates it when the bastard’s all smug and smooth and laughing when there’s nothing there for him to laugh at. Before his mouth catches up with his mind, though, the bastard has his thumb circling at the corner of his mouth. England supposes the frog’s smearing his own blood across his face. That’s just how the bugger ticks.
“Honestly, Angleterre, you have made a mess out of yourself.”
“I beg your—” England starts but France’s thumb pads his lip and that’s just so goddamn distracting. “Would you stop that already?”
But France does not stop, instead rubs his thumb forth and back. Fingers still in France’s hair, England gives his head another quick tug. “You like it rough, don’t you?” the bastard says as he withdraws his hand, replaces it with his mouth. His tongue nudges England’s lips apart.
The notion of bringing his teeth down entertains him for all of a second until England decides, wistfully and against better judgement, not to. He almost feels gracious when he doesn’t.
Another kiss, fiercer this time, with more teeth and biting than before and England’s nothing short of pleased the frog’s not kissing him like a girl again. One of France’s hands is back between his thighs.
Perhaps, England thinks as France’s hand nudges his thighs apart, knee settling between them and rubbing against his cock, this would be the time to say no. But then, the thought goes on, this is sort of awfully hard to accomplish what with France’s mouth sucking the breath out of his lungs like that. And so England says nothing—can’t say nothing—as France works his way up, hooks a finger in a belt-loop and jerks, pressing his knee hard to the bulge in his crotch.
England withdraws then, and half-groans, half-gasps in France’s face. “Stop that at once!” he pants but of course France doesn’t—won’t, only presses harder until England’s hands tremble. Judging by the stupid grimace he receives, he’s sure he has just spilled some wine over the frog’s shirt.
Chuckling, he releases his hair, drags his knuckles over the side of France’s face, who’s making a sort of exclamation of exasperation. England ignores him. Assures himself it’s Frog, reminds himself he doesn’t speak Frog, period.
Since France’s taller than he is, he has to stretch his neck slightly, but it’s worth the endeavour for he gets to trace kisses that are more teeth than tongue from jaw line up to ear. France’s eyes go a little wide at that and his mouth hangs open on short, hard breathes. Strands of smooth, soft hair frame his face. Beneath—delicate features, that bloody gorgeous face and blue eyes, they’re like ice or water, dragging him down with them.
Pour le Plaisir (4/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-05-30 12:28 am (UTC)(link)England buries his face in the nape of France’s neck. And of course the bastard doesn’t get it, trust the bastard not to, and of course the bastard starts to chuckle regardless. A frustrated groan dragged up straight from the pit of his stomach, and England closes his eyes and thinks of kicking him in the balls. At least that’s something he’d get. Trust the bastard to get everything vaguely revolving around genitals.
“Now, now,” France says, other hand gently threading his hair. “You most certainly are a most peculiar being, my dear Angleterre. Terribly short-tempered and rather whimsical. And don’t take offence at my words, it’s true.”
England decides, for the peace of his mind, not to comment on that. It would have been hard to anyway as France keeps his hand busy tugging at the waistband of his pants, pulling him closer until England’s flush against his chest, fit together in a long line. The wine glass quivers in his hand, and it’s really fucking hard not to spill another load. The frog’s knee’s still pressing into his crotch. As it is, England’s preoccupied with not to giving in to the whimpers and pleas France has obviously taken into his head to reduce him to.
Their mouths brushing a second time and tongues flicking out just for a quick taste, England places the flat of his palm on France’s chest before he shoves the frog away. England likes the way France bents under him; just a little more pushing and the frog’s going to end up on the street, literally. One of France’s legs slides around the hollow of his knee. England lets go of him then, takes a step back.
It takes France a moment to regain his balance and when he seems to be standing on both of his feet again, England brings the wine between the both of them, holds it up, and announces he’s had enough of it. “Your turn,” he says when France doesn’t move to take it.
“Ah, but Angleterre—“
“Don’t you ‘Angleterre’ me. Take it.”
France takes it, regards England with a strange expression, and throws his head back and takes a long and deliberate drink.
The moan trapped at the base of England’s throat comes out as a faint hiss.
“You know what I want to do?” he asks.
“What,” France asks languidly, withdrawing only to talk. Another sip. Another time that England’s forced to watch his throat work.
“That.” He leans in to lick along the curve of France’s throat and France moans, England feels his throat vibrate, and wonders whether France's feeling teeth and long and sucking kisses that will leave marks for days to linger. He very much hopes the bastard does.
“And that,” he adds and digs his fingers into France’s waist, flips him around and then France reaches out to grab the railing, one hand cupped around it and the other holding the wine. England could do him the favour to take it and place it on the ground. He doesn’t: Let the frog suffer, he thinks, and now it’s him whose knee pushes between France’s legs, nudges them aside and his fingers that hook themselves in belt-loops.
--
tbc...
Re: Pour le Plaisir (4/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-05-30 01:49 am (UTC)(link)... Will make a real comment later when not overcome by hotness. <3
Re: Pour le Plaisir (4/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-05-30 02:17 am (UTC)(link)Re: Pour le Plaisir (4/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-05-30 04:55 am (UTC)(link)Update soon? Please? :D
Re: Pour le Plaisir (4/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-05-30 11:06 am (UTC)(link)Re: Pour le Plaisir (4/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-05-30 04:33 pm (UTC)(link)Pour le Plaisir (5/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-06-01 10:42 pm (UTC)(link)France widens his stance to prevent trousers and pants from dropping to the ground, catches them at his thighs. England snorts as he tears them down then ducks his head: France’s accuracy is pathetic. Always has been pathetic, and is not going to change now. No, especially not now, England muses, the bastard is leaning over the railing with his back towards him. It’s likely that France’s incompetence increases tenfold.
Winner gets to grab the other’s thigh, and it’s England that wins. It is bland that way, there’s no fun in just grabbing, and bending rules in his favour is almost as satisfying as having the frog bent over, so England’s on his knees in an instant and nips and licks and pinches from outside to inside and from bottom to top, and traces his tongue here and there—everywhere but France’s cock. The most attention France’s cock receives is a blow through England’s teeth.
At last, he nuzzles nose to balls. France cringes but England has him firm in his grip. He traces tiny lines with the edge of his thumbnail across the frog’s thigh to remind him of that. There’s soft and tender flesh just beneath the tip of his thumb. It seems to England that France’s skin takes on the colour of marble against the night.
It’s a lovely feeling to have France squirming, thighs sliding against his ears and rubbing along the nape of his neck with every failed attempt to squeeze them shut, trapping England’s head between them. England has never delivered a blowjob from behind. It must be awkward, or really fucking hot.
If he were to reach out to roll France’s balls in the flat of his palm, he’d lose. England’s strong, but so is France and keeping the bastard’s limbs in place certainly requires both of his hands.
England inhales, purses his lips, exhales again. He cranes his neck further; France’s thighs almost rest on his shoulders now. If the bastard decides to flop down, he will send them both crashing down. England credits France with enough common sense not to.
It would get messy, probably: wine might spill, likely be joined by blood drizzling from his nose. The railing is made of metal but his nose of bones.
France cherishes his carpet, and its stainless whiteness. (England is not so sure it will remain so at dawn, or until they reach dawn. The night’s long, and he is hard and France must be harder.)
The strain on his neck is somewhere between pain and pleasure and England welcomes that sweet ache. France’s balls lie heavy on top of his forehead. England pauses and waits, and, finally, France moves, moves along. France rises up on his tiptoes and England lifts his head as his tongue crawls over what little of France’s cock he gets to reach from this twisted angle. France’s cock tastes like sweat and salt and sex.
France’s thighs tremble. A soft gasp carried away on the wind, and England releases the frog’s legs. He gets up.
When his eyes catch sight of the wine glass France’s clutching on to, England puts forth his own hand. As he reaches out, his fingers brush France’s jaw and the sudden contact jars with his own cock.
England leans in until his head rests upon the frog’s shoulders. Rubbing their cheeks against each other, sucking in the friction of tiny hair on skin gliding against skin, England permits the breath held in his throat to drop into a slur and words stumble from his mouth. “There is more to show.”
Lips press flat against his cheek, and then France breathes into his ear. Shenanigans in English, part in French, and some of it rhymes.
Pour le Plaisir (6/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-06-01 10:45 pm (UTC)(link)The wine slides down smoothly, leaving him dizzy and light-headed. England closes his eyes, inhales the scent of France’s hair, and embraces the warmth that spreads outward from low in his stomach.
They share another moment like this; France’s arm bent and England sipping, before England lets go to throw his arms around the frog’s waist, to keep him in place, steady. Less than a heartbeat later and England is grinding his cock against France’s arse.
Sent forward by England’s sudden thrusts and pinned by England’s weight, France groans as his bones collide with the railing’s sharp edge. Knuckles turning white with the effort to steady himself, the wine glass quivers dangerously in his fingers.
France’s legs tremble as fingers push crudely between either sides of his arse. A strangled moan begins to take on shape. England hears it, and he snarls at France to turn his head so he can claim his mouth. England nudges France’s lips apart when France turns his head, crooks his fingers, and waits for the moan to escape.
It comes, eventually―low and dark and needy and England sucks it in and feels it glide down like wine, intoxicating like France, and England craves more.
“You want me, don’t you?” No moan this time, but ragged breathing and shallow whimpers, which are almost as good as moaning.
“Tight around my fingers, tight around my cock, making you writhe beneath me like the whore you are, yes. Yes, I suppose it is safe to assume that I do want you indeed.”
France chuckles. “Ah, we reached confession time already? Très bien, Angleterre, très bien. Want to indulge in my fantasies?”
England grunts, thumb circling at the edge of France’s hole, barely nudging forward. England waits just long enough for France’s breath to even before he shoves his thumb inside.
France moans, shamelessly, and throws his head back until his forehead scrapes the slant of England’s jaw.
He says, “You are covered in leather, from head to toe. I tie you up. Not the tedious cuffed-to-headboard stuff. The real stuff. Tied from wrist to ankle. A hogtie would suit you with your elbows and head bent, or would you rather bent your knee fully and the rope tight around your knee and ankle?”
A soft hiss slices through the air as England pulls his fingers out, and then quickly slams them back into France again. France moans beautifully as they push for entrance.
England thinks of adding another finger or perhaps two, his hand surely would go in all the way, but England wonders about his other hand. He’s doing the frog dry and France is so fucking tight, muscles clenching down from all sides, his own cock might as well explode before he gets the chance to pound the bastard senseless.
Pour le Plaisir (7/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-06-01 10:47 pm (UTC)(link)England does know but tries his best to focus on fingering France. Yet his mind wanders off, and when the picture of himself stretched open on both ends gets all too vivid—when he almost wants to reach for his nipples and twist them and starts to taste France’s cock on his tongue, arse beginning to ache to be filled—he gives his balls a desperate slap.
It doesn’t go unnoticed, though. France rocks his hips backward, forces England’s hand nearly to grind into his own cock. England clenches his jaw and traps the growl that is half-way out anyway.
“A lovely picture, isn’t it? Lovely wank material, too.”
Fingertips digging into the soft flesh everywhere around his fingers, England says, “You wank to it?”
It shouldn’t come as surprise. And yet it somehow does. “You honestly wank to the mental image of having me hog or frog tied?”
“Among other things, yes,” France replies conversationally. “You of all people should know that, you closet pervert. Does it turn you on to imagine yourself in such positions?” And he adds, almost casually, “Angleterre.”
It does, it fucking does, but England feels no need to share that. He simply pretends to miss France’s remark. “What else do you wank to?”
‘To a lot of dubious things,’ is the answer, and England knows as much, so he cuts in and corrects himself: “By which I mean things I don’t know already.”
France’s quiet for a moment. Whether lost in thought or just teasing, England cannot fathom. At last, France is saying, “Well, unlike you I don’t keep a diary about shared, un-shared, and yet-to-be shared fantasies. I have no clue as to what you know and what you don’t. But there’s something else,” and here is the frog’s voice trailing off. England knows it’s because France feels the fifth finger petting his hole, and that makes him smirk a little.
Pour le Plaisir (8/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-06-01 10:50 pm (UTC)(link)“I’m listening,” England says. There are many things getting the frog hard just thinking about them.
“Pull out your fingers and I’ll show you.”
England pulls out his fingers. England even draws up France’s clothes.
France’s smugness comes in a white flash of teeth, and England sees that huge grin through the darkness.
He holds out the wine glass for England to take and when England does that as well, he sends his fingertips on a journey across England’s cheek and down to his throat, along the curve of his Adam’s apple. They stop there, and England swallows. Fingers press on slowly until―breath and spit caught and hold, England’s mouth falls open on a wet and guttural sound.
France’s all grin and smile, and he makes a sound like he wants to say something. In the end, he doesn’t—England knows the bastard well enough to know that, “Make sure to bring the bottle with you,” is most certainly not what lies on the tip of France’s tongue.
Then he’s gone. Out of sight and off to the bedroom.
--
tbc. Stay tuned, anons! Thank you so much for your comments!
Re: Pour le Plaisir (8/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-06-03 10:59 am (UTC)(link)Pour le Plaisir (9/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-06-04 06:51 am (UTC)(link)Leather couch stretching out beneath his back, England takes a small sip from the glass and says to hell with France’s bedroom. He’s too lazy to bend forward to remove his socks so he drags them over the leather. The other way might have been faster; it takes some time and the same motion over and over again and then once more until the fabric slides over his ankle. A half-arsed kick and his socks are on the ground.
England sighs as he stretches on France’s couch. It is a good one. Cushioning where it ought to cushion and not overwhelming with that smell peculiar to fresh leather. Oh yes, the smell is there but faint, pleasant, not strong. There is also the fragrance of night, of melancholy and tragedy clinging to it but that is just France’s perfume.
England traces the rim of the wine glass and thinks of France. Reminisces.
It occurred to England then that it has been a while now since he and France last waged war against the other, and that is a strange thought. Not at all unsettling. Rather, relaxing. Although these were not quite the words he had been looking for.
How might one describe the transfer of battlefields to bedrooms when it is not the sex that is to be highlighted? England doesn’t know. He sips his glass but no sudden insight unveils, and so England allows his thoughts to drift. England finds himself thinking of sex.
Another astonishing fact: they are on speaking terms during most of it.
Sometimes the sex is not aggressive at a―
“No,” England says because that is absurd. We most certainly do not make love.
The rustling of his sleeves as France crosses his arms gives him away. Judged by the sound he makes he must be close to the door leading to his bedroom. (Which, all things considered, proved itself a personal favourite of England’s for France’s bed reminded him of the sea. Moreover, it rocked back when fucked. It is not often but every once in a while England prefers France’s bed to the frog himself. The water splashes so nicely against his face when he comes but it never gets him wet or dirty, always keeps him warm afterward.)
France’s soft porn music still floats through the speakers. England wanders why they aren’t fucking yet. He voices his concern.
“Because, my dear, you never made it to the bedroom.”
Fair enough, yet:
“I want it on the couch.”
“Absolutely not!” France manages to sound horrified at the mere thought of fucking on his precious couch but he fails at banning lust and arousal from his voice. It quivers. England isn’t surprised. He presses on, “Weren’t you the one who wanted me covered in leather? Well, there you are. Help yourself.”
He motions down his body, and remembers all movement is either lost in darkness or distance. He pads a spot just beneath him then, loud enough for France to hear the teasing sound of flesh on leather. France’s voice drops to a soft murmur. He’s still complaining.
England sets the glass aside, winds on the couch. Brings his hands down. France’s trail of complains comes to a halt. He is listening. Good.
England smiles when he discards trousers, and feels that smile broadening into a grin when his belt clatters to the ground. “You could have tied me up with it,” he says.
France says nothing, and so England adds, “I’m naked, hips down. Don’t tell me you don’t want me like this.”
England’s not sure what did it in the end but that was not what mattered. No, what mattered was that feet strolled and a moment later a hand touched his hair and the bastard crouched next to him. “I’ll charge you with the expenses.”
A thumb pressing against the corner of his mouth, and England laughs. “My bad, I do not feel not the slightest inclination to assent.”
The thumb’s gone and so is France’s hand—or so he thinks, at least. It takes England a second, or perhaps two, to notice the warmth spreading on his forehead is the flat of France’s palm resting there. There’s the thumb again, stroking; brushing strands of hair aside.
Pour le Plaisir (10/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-06-04 06:52 am (UTC)(link)England closes his eyes, cradles within France’s caress. He remains silent and therein lies his consent.
A female voice, but another as the one up until now, carried to his ears. “Oh god,” England croaks, and his own voice is hoarse, hoarse and lost and slipping through his fingers. It is a feeling he knows all too well. One that threatens to consume his souls, consume his very essence. It is not lust. It is worse.
It is wrong.
The voice warbles away and England aims to hit but France’s finger curl around his wrist, and the bastard leans in close—is kissing him.
It’s so clichéd England wants to puke: kissing to Édith Piaf. At night, in the dark.
And he still hasn’t said no.
It’s him who breaks the kiss but France that turns round for the wine glass. He takes a drink, quick and fast, and puts it down again.
As soon as the wine is on the table, England catches France’s wrist this time, thumb is digging hard into palm. Nails dig into skin as well; that is wonderful: England presses harder. France’s fingers fold over his thumb.
When England brings his other hand to smack France’s knuckles it is by accident that his fingers touch France’s nails, or what should be left of them. France’s nails trimmed down to such a length. It dawns on him, then. And they had been so short the entire time. How could he have not noticed?
England’s voice is calm and controlled but his finger fingers clutch too tightly on to France’s wrist. “You’ve planned this all along.”
Inhaling, he lets go of France. France moves, probably to caress his wrist.
Yes, it dawns on him. Slowly, but steadily, it dawns on him.
Perhaps it is a similar thought that makes France brace both his hands besides England’s head, or another altogether. England could feel them just beneath his ears. When he moved, they touched.
“Do you want it?” France says and England notes the frog’s hands aren’t shaking, and his voice is not quivering. There is no lust in it, either. Just curiosity, and—England wishes there wouldn’t—tenderness. Concern. “You want this, right?”
Do I, England thinks when France raises from the floor and a knee settles between his thighs, trapping him. “A little fun,” France continues, “You won’t say no to a little fun, won’t you?”
“A little fun,” England says as if he is really thinking about it, pros and cons and all that shit, and turns his head so that one side of his face rests on the back of France’s hand. He feels knuckles under his cheekbone.
“Angleterre. Answer me.”
Pour le Plaisir (11/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-06-04 06:54 am (UTC)(link)France hips roll back in response. Excellent, the frog’s not quite as dumb as one.
“And since you trimmed your nails,” and he thinks, you fucker, “I suppose the pleasure is all mine? Will be all mine?”
“All yours,” France agrees when his knee presses into England’s cock. “The fun’s all yours, mon cher. Think you can handle that?”
France’s shirt rustling again. There are still knuckles hard against his bone, but England assumes the other hand must be gone, and when, all but a second later, a palm rests flat on his belly, the riddle is solved on its own.
France fingers are skilled; they nearly make an art out of unbuttoning his shirt. France doesn’t let him wait long and then there are teeth at the hollow of his throat, dragging gasps and strangled whimpers out of the pit of his stomach before he’s got the time to clamp his mouth shut.
France laughs. “I forgot you like to like to be talked dirty to. How’s about that: come and get hard for me, moan for me,” he adds, “I want you noisy.”
If the hand wasn’t there, England tells himself, if France’s goddamn hand wouldn’t caress his belly like one pets cats, or if France’s bloody fucking knee wouldn’t rock against his cock, then he’d be able to think of something to snap back. As it is now, however, there is too much friction, too much rubbing and petting and feeling good going on. His mind barely works on consecutive thinking.
Therefore, England does the next best thing that comes to mind: he pants―and France bends down, claims his mouth, and sucks in breath and sound.
--
tbc
Pour le Plaisir (12/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-06-04 11:36 am (UTC)(link)“Do you know that when I’m alone,” France’s breath is hot against his mouth, hot against his face, thumb outlining belly button and England bites down on his lip—or France’s lip, he doesn’t care. (It must have been his own lip, though, because France withdraws, begins to lick a line from the corner of his mouth down to his throat, over his Adam’s apple, down, down, down.)
And he goes on: “I lie on this couch, on my stomach, to be exact, eyes closed,” (and he hesitates, mouth on the slope of England’s shoulder, hooks his thumb into England’s belly button), “I think of you,” (teeth scraping over his collarbone and England’s eyelids flutter), “My face’s down, I inhale the scent of leather. My fingers around my dick, and I give it a quick tug, inhale more leather. And with closed eyes and fingers squeezing my dick, it’s a wonderful scent.”
The pressure against his cock is almost unbearable and the circling motion of France’s finger inside his belly button distracting at best. England forces his fingers to uncurl: they would leave beautiful marks on France’s hips, certainly, and complete those left by the railing just nicely. A pity, almost: England mustn’t give the bloody frog the satisfaction of letting him know just how unbearable France’s touches are.
The marks he is leaving are the frog’s yardstick. He knows that much. Also knows France’s expression must be smug right now, and England’s almost glad it’s pitch-dark. France’s expression is hard to make out.
France’s mouth works up to the slope of his shoulder and bites down the same moment the bastard withdraws his thumb and instead brings his palm down on England’s belly, hard, right above the bladder.
England yelps, tries to sit up and push the bloody frog away but France is faster―tugs his other hand away from under his head, presses it against his chest and pushes him down again, makes him stay there. France is heavy even though he does not push with all his weight. England’s mouth hangs open on ragged gasps. He barely manages to snap, “Are you out of your mind, you dolt!”
France’s all smile and grin now, and it is so fucking wide that it stands out against the dark.
If he wasn’t short on breath he’d wipe it off. As it is, now, though, he decidedly says to hell with not giving the frog the extra satisfaction of leaving marks―and stretches until he feels France’s chest, feels his way around until he finds what he is looking for. It’s not particularly hard to find them, not when they are as erect as that.
Caught between thumb and forefinger, England twists both of France nipples, twists the shirt’s fabric along. France draws in a sharp cry. “Eye for an eye,” he tells France, “we’re even.”
France’s voice trails off in a hiss, and England says, “I believe you haven’t finished with your story yet?”
France shifts on top of him, knee still rubbing against his cock, fabric against tender skin and friction that sparkles behind closed eyelids. “No, I haven’t and if you don’t stay down there, I won’t. And, cher, by that I mean keep your perverted hands to yourself.”
“And why, pray tell, can you touch but I can’t?”
“Because that’s cheating,” France says and grabs his wrists and England lets him, “because that’s my couch your idle limbs are sprawled out on, because that means I’m the one who gets to make the rules, and because you’re a cheating whore, that’s why.”
England says, “Savvy,” and laughs but he’s the only one who gets the joke and his laughter soon fades. “So,” he says, as France makes him lower his hands. “Your story.”
“Yes, right,” and France’s mouth is back on his shoulder and one of his hand’s still pressed flat against his belly, but the other runs down his thigh, cups England’s cock while France’s knee rubs from the other end.
France says he wants England to close his eyes. England complies with that request; the sensation increases, and England presses backward, rolls his hips. The hand is gone then and the knee stops right away.
Pour le Plaisir (13/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-06-04 12:20 pm (UTC)(link)Seconds tick by, and when France makes use of hand and knee again, it is only to nudge England’s thighs further apart but not to touch his cock. England’s determined not to but old habits never die, and he finds himself hissing at France long before brain catches up with mouth. “Would you get on already?”
Hands caress his body, and so fucking slow―France’s playing the tease now, tracing circles, rubbing here and there, everywhere, just not his cock. On their way down to the cleft of his arse, they leave his cock out entirely.
“Well, the story is this,” France says, and England feels a thumbnail scraping at the edge of his hole, “my face’s down on the couch so I can pretend it’s not my couch I smell but the scent of leather tight around,” the tip of France’s thumb pressing for entrance, and England’s breath hitches at the intrusion, “tight around your dick, your waist, your legs, your throat. You’re wearing a collar, and the leash’s tight around my fingers. I give it a tug when in reality it’s my dick I’m tugging senseless.”
And, oh, the mental image’s there, and it’s so bloody ridiculous. England snorts because that’s so France, that bloody size whore.
“You are not that huge,” he says. It takes more than a second for that bloody idiot to grasp the reference, though, but when he does, England feels the thumb crooking inside him. “Shut up,” France huffs, and England’s chest heaves with suppressed laughter, sends a shiver down his spine as France’s finger shakes within him.
A second finger pushing in and a howl falls from his lips, because, Christ, France’s fucking him dry, the bloody bugger; his arse’s still trying accommodate France’s thumb.
More stretch, more burning, it’s too much, he’s got to spread his legs. Means to tell France but when he opens his mouth the fucker leans in to steal a kiss. It’s irritating, and England finds himself licking his lips.
France’s knees keep his thighs trapped together, though, and there is no way England can wriggle free. He tries to—and makes France’s finger sliding further into him.
England’s hands twist, fingers gliding off smooth leather. He sighs as France’s fingertips press against tender flesh. With that stretch it’s two steps from pleasure. England presses backward.
France’s leaning in again, lips brushing the lobe of England’s ear and France says, “I’ll go get some lube.” He places a kiss on England’s forehead as he draws his fingers out to get up.
As he turns to head for the bedroom, England grabs his wrist. A startled look, but France’s eyes shine so bright in the dark, so beautiful. He catches his breath and smirks, says, “Get down and give me a proper kiss, bastard.”
--
Slick fingers spreading him, and France saying: “There is still more to The Story,” (as they haven taken to call it by now) and England feels the twist in his gut winding tighter. “I’m listening,” he mumbles. England’s voice is failing him and his thighs tremble with the effort to hold still, not to spread wider, or slam together.
Just as France is cold and slick inside (despite his bests efforts to warm the lube, England gives him credit for that) him right now, England wonders, he must be hot and tight around the bastard. The mere thought drags a low groan from his clenched lips.
It seems to be to France’s liking too, because the bastard licks his own lips as he curls und uncurls his fingers. England won’t give him another sound like this. But fuck, France’s fingers are skilled.
“As I said, you are fully dressed in leather and the leash of the collar around around your neck is in my hand. And, I believe, we have established that I tug at it when I’m really tugging at my dick, yes?”
“So we did,” England half-pants, half-gasps, and France curves his fingers deeper.
There is this wonderful sensation of being stretched wide and open, but France has hardly two fingers inside him, with lube even, and England’s beginning to doubt himself. Has it been that long since France’s fingers lust fucked him, or is his arse short of exercise?
Pour le Plaisir (14/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-06-04 02:07 pm (UTC)(link)“I run my thumb along the length of my dick. Then I grab it, hard, just like this,” and there’s his other hand closing around England’s cock then, and England throws his head back, bites on his lip, “and I squeeze it. Slow, long strokes.”
England’s nostrils flare as he breathes in deeply and again, and he clamps one hand over his mouth, the other looking for hold. It’s becoming hard to lie still with France inside him and around him; patterns shift and swirl and the world becomes a blur of black and night and flash of France’s bright blue eyes.
France’s hand releases his cock. Same fingers catching his ankle and bringing the ball of his foot to rest on France’s shoulder, and his arse almost drawing France’s finger further in as a result, and France kissing the tip of his toes, and England realises how much he wants this.
England isn’t aware of the soft moan falling from his lips until France says, “Oui, like that. I want you noisy.”
England is about to tell him to go and fucking shove his noise up his arse, but his snarl gets lost in a long line of grunts and groans as France’s flexing his fingers, and he feels so fucking stuffed and it’s so wrong and good, and oh god, it’s only the third finger.
He feels light-headed, thoughts scrambled. Fingertips twisting, stretching, and exploring the inside of his arse, pressing and pushing everywhere they touch, France’s sending him high and higher. Orgasm’s there, building up, just outside his reach.
Arching his back and hips rocking hard to meet with the steady push and shove of France’s fingers, the notion of ordering the frog to pull out at once and to see to seat his own arse down on England’s cock instead becomes rather tempting.
Fingers of one hand twisting uselessly in leather he won’t get a hold of no matter what, he clenches his eyes shut, drags his other hand down. Down to where England’s cock is throbbing, pre-come sliding down the tip of his cock. England rubs thumb and forefinger against each other, feels the thing sticky on his skin.
He’d fuck the frog dry, without lube. Perhaps he’d wet his fingers with wine, dip them in it. He’d fuck the frog rough and hard like he deserves it, jam his hand into the frog’s hole and feel around. And then he’d withdraw and let the frog lick off his fingers, lick off the wine and smell of his arse.
England’s voice comes out in a plea as he orders France to make it harder, to give him more; more pressure and stretch and burn. “You want me noisy,” he pants, “you bloody tosser make me noisy.”
France laughs, drawls, “I’m afraid I—you need more lube,” and then fingers move down instead of up, deeper, and the bastard adds, “Because, cher, your ass has no stamina. I’d split you in two if I gave you more pressure.”
--
Fingertips circling his hole, teasing, and then all sensation narrows down to slick, hard stretching. Sensitive flesh burning and England’s muscles are alive.
“Merde, Angleterre, look at that,” France says, easing his way in, and England’s reply he won’t see anything, it’s fucking dark you bloody twit, gets lost in a moan.
France’s splitting, splitting, splitting him—
It’s like France’s reaching up inside, which—Arthur muses—he is, in away, and he almost sobs, arousal and stretch and every touch soaring through his bones.
Oh shit, England thinks, it’s affection.
“Angleterre, I—” France says and England thinks, fuck fuck fuck oh fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck, he does not want to hear it. Panic rises in his chest, up his throat, he splutters, and his eyes widen and it’s like England’s body forgets how to breathe.
Something warm presses to his belly, strokes and rubs. “Breathe,” France whispers and his voice is as gentle as his palm is tender, “I need you to breathe. You won’t enjoy it if you don’t breathe. Relax, breathe. I’m here with you.”
Precisely that is the bloody fucking problem, England wants to scream.
Re: Pour le Plaisir (14/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-06-04 11:02 pm (UTC)(link)"Savvy?"
l;skfdjal;f jf ;ajp[wervpnewk;jfnaskf;jnwpioeuv;nal....
This. is... amazing...
Re: Pour le Plaisir (14/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-06-05 03:35 am (UTC)(link)Re: Pour le Plaisir (14/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-06-05 04:44 am (UTC)(link)Re: Pour le Plaisir (14/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-06-05 08:09 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Pour le Plaisir (14/?)
(Anonymous) 2010-06-06 01:51 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Pour le Plaisir (14/?)
(Anonymous) - 2010-06-06 14:45 (UTC) - Expand