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.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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 02:45 pm (UTC)(link)Oh authanon, this is amazing...
Please, please please update. I'm dying here <3