Hoshit I got free reign this means trouble B) It also meant I thought of like six different scenarios I wanted them to act out and couldn’t decide for the longest time agh. So yeah, sorry this took so long to update, anons! I was moving stuff across a chunk of the country for a few days, and then I was a lazy ass, and then I could not decide for the life of me which scenario was the hottest.
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France brings his other hand to Denmark’s shirt and runs it down - cleans it off, in a way - watches as the stain runs from flesh to fabric instead, takes a moment to appreciate that Denmark thought to wear something light in color. Or perhaps he never gave it a thought and simply threw on the first thing he touched this morning - either way.
The fingers of his other hand tease at the rip in Denmark’s shirt, peeking in and barely brushing against soft skin and chest hair, then run back along the seam between frayed fabric and skin. France’s breath stutters. Denmark lips his lips, minutely - pink tongue poking through white teeth, and France thinks that those colors will need to change, won’t they - and Denmark ruts up against him once more, broad, strong hands bringing their bodies together, fabric against fabric, length against length, glorious.
A barely audible hiss from France is the only warning Denmark gets before their lips are smashed together once more, and this time France aims for a little bruising, perhaps blood - Denmark always did have a thing for that. France can’t say that he doesn’t see the appeal. He obliges Denmark, though only after a short-lived but heated battle between tongues, his smooth lips crudely pressing against Denmark’s slightly chapped ones, the contours of both of their bodies obvious through their clothes as they graze together.
Only when he needs air does France pull away. As he does, he opens his eyes to meet Denmark’s, making sure that his hot breaths linger over Denmark’s skin, his chin, his lips - a small, playful kiss to the tip of Denmark’s nose is quickly followed by France’s sharp teeth sinking into Denmark’s lower lip, and staying.
Denmark’s eyes flutter and he groans, hands raking up France’s sides - France twists his jaw, slightly, tastes copper and metal tang - Denmark presses them together, so tight, so flush, it is almost painful. France swallows, pulls up, swollen lip still in his grasp, while one hand resumes stroking through the mess on Denmark’s face.
A halting breath, half-out his nose and half-into Denmark’s mouth - France can see at close range, now, the tarnished canvas of Denmark’s face. Sweat breaks out across it, especially his forehead, and is joined by a light flush. The pink looks nice with the black, yes. Like the last gasp of dusk, perhaps, in the countryside, or over a battlefield - that would be the more proper allusion, what with the smell of blood, sweat, dirt in the air.
Though the flickering yellow of the warehouse lights do add an air of the urban to this, after all -
“France,” Denmark huffs - or tries to, it is rather indecipherable with one lip trapped in the blunt cage of France’s teeth - and shifts underneath, pointedly pressing their erections together.
Ah. It would not do to forget Denmark in this - what sort of lover would that make him? Certainly not one worthy of his reputation. France pulls back and gives a gentle kiss of apology; Denmark grabs his hair, tight and fierce, and tears all of the gentleness away from the liplock.
France wants to laugh, but he doesn’t.
Instead he indulges Denmark for another minute, two, he is not quite sure, and pulls away once they are both breathing hard, shifts to his elbow and once again reaches for the paint. Straightens his arm out, but makes sure to keep their lower bodies aligned even as he adds a streak of black, straight from the tube, onto Denmark’s clothing.
Carbonic [4/?]
It also meant I thought of like six different scenarios I wanted them to act out and couldn’t decide for the longest time agh.So yeah, sorry this took so long to update, anons! I was moving stuff across a chunk of the country for a few days, and then I was a lazy ass, and then I could not decide for the life of me which scenario was the hottest.---
France brings his other hand to Denmark’s shirt and runs it down - cleans it off, in a way - watches as the stain runs from flesh to fabric instead, takes a moment to appreciate that Denmark thought to wear something light in color. Or perhaps he never gave it a thought and simply threw on the first thing he touched this morning - either way.
The fingers of his other hand tease at the rip in Denmark’s shirt, peeking in and barely brushing against soft skin and chest hair, then run back along the seam between frayed fabric and skin. France’s breath stutters. Denmark lips his lips, minutely - pink tongue poking through white teeth, and France thinks that those colors will need to change, won’t they - and Denmark ruts up against him once more, broad, strong hands bringing their bodies together, fabric against fabric, length against length, glorious.
A barely audible hiss from France is the only warning Denmark gets before their lips are smashed together once more, and this time France aims for a little bruising, perhaps blood - Denmark always did have a thing for that. France can’t say that he doesn’t see the appeal. He obliges Denmark, though only after a short-lived but heated battle between tongues, his smooth lips crudely pressing against Denmark’s slightly chapped ones, the contours of both of their bodies obvious through their clothes as they graze together.
Only when he needs air does France pull away. As he does, he opens his eyes to meet Denmark’s, making sure that his hot breaths linger over Denmark’s skin, his chin, his lips - a small, playful kiss to the tip of Denmark’s nose is quickly followed by France’s sharp teeth sinking into Denmark’s lower lip, and staying.
Denmark’s eyes flutter and he groans, hands raking up France’s sides - France twists his jaw, slightly, tastes copper and metal tang - Denmark presses them together, so tight, so flush, it is almost painful. France swallows, pulls up, swollen lip still in his grasp, while one hand resumes stroking through the mess on Denmark’s face.
A halting breath, half-out his nose and half-into Denmark’s mouth - France can see at close range, now, the tarnished canvas of Denmark’s face. Sweat breaks out across it, especially his forehead, and is joined by a light flush. The pink looks nice with the black, yes. Like the last gasp of dusk, perhaps, in the countryside, or over a battlefield - that would be the more proper allusion, what with the smell of blood, sweat, dirt in the air.
Though the flickering yellow of the warehouse lights do add an air of the urban to this, after all -
“France,” Denmark huffs - or tries to, it is rather indecipherable with one lip trapped in the blunt cage of France’s teeth - and shifts underneath, pointedly pressing their erections together.
Ah. It would not do to forget Denmark in this - what sort of lover would that make him? Certainly not one worthy of his reputation. France pulls back and gives a gentle kiss of apology; Denmark grabs his hair, tight and fierce, and tears all of the gentleness away from the liplock.
France wants to laugh, but he doesn’t.
Instead he indulges Denmark for another minute, two, he is not quite sure, and pulls away once they are both breathing hard, shifts to his elbow and once again reaches for the paint. Straightens his arm out, but makes sure to keep their lower bodies aligned even as he adds a streak of black, straight from the tube, onto Denmark’s clothing.