That swallow - harsh, loud, entirely obvious - it takes France a second to realize that the noise came from himself, and the next sees him cradling Denmark’s face in both hands, one delightfully tangling in Denmark’s filthy fingers, the other slipping through paint and dirt that is alternately sweat-streaked and flaking in places. He quickly observes, eyes flicking across Denmark’s face - finally landing to rest on that tiny streak of dirt, along the very left edge of Denmark’s bitten, swollen lip. Deep red and black, always such an intoxicating combination. Bottles of wine, death of the day, death in battle, Denmark’s attire - Denmark knew. Prussia knew. France, of course, knew.
France wants to taste it. It will not taste like wine, no, but it will certainly be as potent.
He bends down, one fluid motion, and peeks his tongue out over Denmark’s quivering, cheshire grin. It tastes of salt, musk, the earth - as it should. It sends a pulse of heat straight through him - the idea that Denmark would taste of the things that make him up, of what he came from - the heat gathers in his chest, in his groin.
He has to ignore such things - regard them, for now, as frivolous, physical - despite how much he may like the sensations in any other situation - if he is to continue this.
Denmark’s hand guides his own down his neck, down those sloppy streaks of dirt and sweat; the other reaches between them, finishing what he started. It’s hasty, and France is perfectly fine with this - the both of them slipping and lurching out of cloth, too binding, too tight - knees knocking and - ah, shoes.
They pull away from each other, for a moment, shucking off shoes, pants, shirts, undergarments - France eyes Denmark’s powerful thighs and bends, brings his mouth to the muscle and hair, nipping a line up one, watching as the sinew jumps under his ministrations.
And then Denmark grabs his hand with a low, amused sound, half-throws France’s body over him, and thrusts their joined arms into the container. It spills, but neither minds at this point - France merely fists the dirt, glides up against Denmark’s body as he does so - sweat and skin so sweetly meet, a fleeting instant - feels as it crumbles through his fingers, takes a breath to steady himself.
Pulls back - he wants to throw it over Denmark’s thigh, see the patterns as they land - makes his own pattern instead. A bold streak, the remainder falling down, arcing over strong muscle, some catching in hair, dots and trails and patterns - Monet and Kandinsky combined, if the two weren’t so disposed to pure color and instead painted sepia grit and flesh -
Denmark mouths his neck and France’s ears are filled with Denmark’s breathless snickering. It takes him a moment to register his own ragged breathing through it - and suddenly Denmark wraps both hands around his waist and topples them both back onto the floor. They meet in one loud thump that echoes and resounds through the room, over sounds of their living, breathing -
Just as suddenly, Denmark’s wide, wet hand has enveloped both of their arousals.
“When,” France gasps into Denmark’s collarbone, pushing himself up once more, “did you get the lube, may I ask.”
Denmark’s eyes scrunch up at him, mischievous and knowing, and still very, very bright. Blue. He tightens his hold and roughly brings his hand up, both of them wet, hard, sliding against one another, pulsing - flashes him a bruised, marred grin over white teeth - France moans. Denmark continues, grin widening even further, despite his increased flush, as France becomes undone.
His hand pulls away and France attempts to regain his bearing, as well as his breathing.
Denmark turns his head to the side, hand groping clumsily. “Not wet enough. This thing should be sloppy, yeah?” he half-laughs, half-pants. The hand returns before France can respond - dripping, this time.
And, ah - that - that is nice, indeed. Denmark rubs them, together, tight, fast, good - France tries to buck into the heat, the sloppy friction, all while palming Denmark’s face with his free hand, thumbing into the hollow beneath his cheekbone - he can feel the outline of teeth and jaw underneath Denmark’s skin - teeth, bone, blood, sinew -
Carbonic [6/?]
France wants to taste it. It will not taste like wine, no, but it will certainly be as potent.
He bends down, one fluid motion, and peeks his tongue out over Denmark’s quivering, cheshire grin. It tastes of salt, musk, the earth - as it should. It sends a pulse of heat straight through him - the idea that Denmark would taste of the things that make him up, of what he came from - the heat gathers in his chest, in his groin.
He has to ignore such things - regard them, for now, as frivolous, physical - despite how much he may like the sensations in any other situation - if he is to continue this.
Denmark’s hand guides his own down his neck, down those sloppy streaks of dirt and sweat; the other reaches between them, finishing what he started. It’s hasty, and France is perfectly fine with this - the both of them slipping and lurching out of cloth, too binding, too tight - knees knocking and - ah, shoes.
They pull away from each other, for a moment, shucking off shoes, pants, shirts, undergarments - France eyes Denmark’s powerful thighs and bends, brings his mouth to the muscle and hair, nipping a line up one, watching as the sinew jumps under his ministrations.
And then Denmark grabs his hand with a low, amused sound, half-throws France’s body over him, and thrusts their joined arms into the container. It spills, but neither minds at this point - France merely fists the dirt, glides up against Denmark’s body as he does so - sweat and skin so sweetly meet, a fleeting instant - feels as it crumbles through his fingers, takes a breath to steady himself.
Pulls back - he wants to throw it over Denmark’s thigh, see the patterns as they land - makes his own pattern instead. A bold streak, the remainder falling down, arcing over strong muscle, some catching in hair, dots and trails and patterns - Monet and Kandinsky combined, if the two weren’t so disposed to pure color and instead painted sepia grit and flesh -
Denmark mouths his neck and France’s ears are filled with Denmark’s breathless snickering. It takes him a moment to register his own ragged breathing through it - and suddenly Denmark wraps both hands around his waist and topples them both back onto the floor. They meet in one loud thump that echoes and resounds through the room, over sounds of their living, breathing -
Just as suddenly, Denmark’s wide, wet hand has enveloped both of their arousals.
“When,” France gasps into Denmark’s collarbone, pushing himself up once more, “did you get the lube, may I ask.”
Denmark’s eyes scrunch up at him, mischievous and knowing, and still very, very bright. Blue. He tightens his hold and roughly brings his hand up, both of them wet, hard, sliding against one another, pulsing - flashes him a bruised, marred grin over white teeth - France moans. Denmark continues, grin widening even further, despite his increased flush, as France becomes undone.
His hand pulls away and France attempts to regain his bearing, as well as his breathing.
Denmark turns his head to the side, hand groping clumsily. “Not wet enough. This thing should be sloppy, yeah?” he half-laughs, half-pants. The hand returns before France can respond - dripping, this time.
And, ah - that - that is nice, indeed. Denmark rubs them, together, tight, fast, good - France tries to buck into the heat, the sloppy friction, all while palming Denmark’s face with his free hand, thumbing into the hollow beneath his cheekbone - he can feel the outline of teeth and jaw underneath Denmark’s skin - teeth, bone, blood, sinew -