Past Part Fills Part 2 -- CLOSED

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theme: kisses FrUK 27/?

[(Anonymous)]

Duet Kiss

England is well accustomed to supernatural things. The occasional Britannia Angel incidents keep things fresh. Having turned another nation back into their child body makes things amusing (for some. It’s still hard looking at Russia without that overwhelming sense to hug him).

England speaks to the faeries of old, dances with the seelie court and joins the unseelie in the occasional ritual or two. He’ll swim with the kelpies (using himself as a sacrifice so they leave his humans alone) and frolic with unicorns.
So, England will not blink in surprise when something happens.

He will, or course, proceed to get angry though.

“So help me god, France. If you don’t find a way to convince me that you’re saving her life with CPR, I’ll snap your scrawny little neck,” England hissed, green eyes narrowing. France and his busty blonde companion separate, look at him.

England’s heavy breath freezes as his fist tightens around the doorknob. While he feels the metal bend, his mind does not register it.

“I make a beautiful woman, do I not?” France sighs and his hand adoringly pats her beautifully shaped bum. The woman on his lap smirks at England, her fingers brushing softly against France’s long blond hair.

“I also make a beautiful man, do you not agree?” She imitates his sigh perfectly; just the tiniest bit lighter and more breathless (feminine) and they fall into each other’s arms. Still looking at England. Both pairs of deep blue eyes waiting for an answer, hands wandering, mapping out their bodies. So similar and so different.

“You...” His words catch in his throat. She smiles and moves from France’s hair to his white button up shirt. Pop, pop, pop. She undoes the buttons, revealing France’s chest. Bends down to kiss it, lick his nipple.

France is wider than she, more muscular, but she’s leaner. A sword and a dagger, both still dangerous and beautiful. She shifts in his lap, her pencil skirt rides up, showing the lace of her black thigh-high garter sock. France’s hands follow the rising skirt, before moving to her midnight blue silk blouse.

“Would you like to see more?” France whispers towards England. Or maybe she asked. England can’t really tell over the roar of his heartbeat in his ears.

The sight goes straight to England’s heart, and then plummets further, to his cock. Their cheeks rub together, lips just barely touching, panting softly into each other’s open mouths (deliciously red and shiny with saliva), blushing, waiting for him...

He steps forward, pulled back. England still hasn’t let go of the crushed doorknob. He will have to replace that later. He manages to unclench his hand and steps forward again. This time, successful.

“England,” They sigh in unison, both arms held out to receive him. With a soft cry, he falls into them. England is instantly enveloped in their arms, the center of their attention.