France nibbles at England’s slit just a tad harder than intended, and he’ll have a black eye later, perhaps. Just as well. England knows he despises that term--fuck, he’s seen with his own eyes how it kills the mood for France.
Most likely the point, he thinks.
His own erection gone, his body simmering with frustration and loss, he sinks down over England’s cockhead and teases with his teeth. One too-hard nip and England will have a taste of what France feels at this moment. Any harder, and--
Well.
England gets off on the idea, at least, if his labored breathing is any indication.
He puts his tongue to work on the underside of England’s cock as he sinks lower and lower. His hands move from England’s hips to catch his hands and pin them to the armrests. There may be no fireworks for him tonight, no hand jerking him off with hasty, clumsy strokes in the dark, but at least he’ll be able to swallow his food tomorrow.
France wonders if England knows he’s whining now, a faint little trill with every exhale. France can’t be bothered to think about it, really. Deep throating is a delicate art, after all. One that requires him to get lost in England’s curved cock, the smell of seaside air and crashing waves, the way England throbs and pulses in his mouth--
And then England thrusts up with his hips and catches the back of France’s throat by surprise.
France gags, but he doesn’t pull away and he doesn’t struggle when England fists his hair in his fingers and holds him. Holds him while he pounds into France’s mouth and gets slobber everywhere--on the chair, on their pants, all dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t pull away even as England turns the back of his throat into tenderized meat.
“Fuck,” England breathes, “fuck.” And France takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes. For he knows England will come soon, hot and messy down his throat. So he waits for England to die his little death, to have this Valentine’s Day over and done with--
France yelps when England pulls his head back instead, wrenches his neck back hard enough to make it crack a little. And France’s scalp screams with pain as England shoots off all over his face, thick white streams leaving splatters and strands over his eyelids, his nose. Come slithers into his hair from where it splats on the crown of his head.
It’s quiet. They both breathe heavily. The twilight’s gone, and sharp neon and artificial lights peek through the curtains. France stands and takes a tissue when he realizes England’s not offering his handkerchief.
“I hope you like your chocolates,” France says. “It’s--a brand I particularly like, one that--”
“Don’t you have someplace else to be?” England asks, and turns a page in his book. France stares. A chuckle bubbles in the back of his throat. A single swallow and it dies a quiet and dignified death.
“Yes,” France says, smiling. He takes his box of chocolates and tucks them under his arm, smoothing out his shirt so it looks just proper enough. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
He almost looks back when his hand is on the doorknob. Almost.
But England clears his throat as he starts turning his head, and that’s all the warning he needs.
Outside now, back pressed against the door, France rests the back of his head for a moment and looks up at the lights. His entire body needs a good scrubbing, especially his face and hair. It’s as if dirt has crawled into every single one of his pores, clogging him up until he’s bursting with hot emotion and almost-despair.
Almost.
France hugs his box of chocolates to his chest, smiles, and moves on to the next room. ________________
heart-shaped chocolate box [2/2]
Most likely the point, he thinks.
His own erection gone, his body simmering with frustration and loss, he sinks down over England’s cockhead and teases with his teeth. One too-hard nip and England will have a taste of what France feels at this moment. Any harder, and--
Well.
England gets off on the idea, at least, if his labored breathing is any indication.
He puts his tongue to work on the underside of England’s cock as he sinks lower and lower. His hands move from England’s hips to catch his hands and pin them to the armrests. There may be no fireworks for him tonight, no hand jerking him off with hasty, clumsy strokes in the dark, but at least he’ll be able to swallow his food tomorrow.
France wonders if England knows he’s whining now, a faint little trill with every exhale. France can’t be bothered to think about it, really. Deep throating is a delicate art, after all. One that requires him to get lost in England’s curved cock, the smell of seaside air and crashing waves, the way England throbs and pulses in his mouth--
And then England thrusts up with his hips and catches the back of France’s throat by surprise.
France gags, but he doesn’t pull away and he doesn’t struggle when England fists his hair in his fingers and holds him. Holds him while he pounds into France’s mouth and gets slobber everywhere--on the chair, on their pants, all dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t pull away even as England turns the back of his throat into tenderized meat.
“Fuck,” England breathes, “fuck.” And France takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes. For he knows England will come soon, hot and messy down his throat. So he waits for England to die his little death, to have this Valentine’s Day over and done with--
France yelps when England pulls his head back instead, wrenches his neck back hard enough to make it crack a little. And France’s scalp screams with pain as England shoots off all over his face, thick white streams leaving splatters and strands over his eyelids, his nose. Come slithers into his hair from where it splats on the crown of his head.
It’s quiet. They both breathe heavily. The twilight’s gone, and sharp neon and artificial lights peek through the curtains. France stands and takes a tissue when he realizes England’s not offering his handkerchief.
“I hope you like your chocolates,” France says. “It’s--a brand I particularly like, one that--”
“Don’t you have someplace else to be?” England asks, and turns a page in his book. France stares. A chuckle bubbles in the back of his throat. A single swallow and it dies a quiet and dignified death.
“Yes,” France says, smiling. He takes his box of chocolates and tucks them under his arm, smoothing out his shirt so it looks just proper enough. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
He almost looks back when his hand is on the doorknob. Almost.
But England clears his throat as he starts turning his head, and that’s all the warning he needs.
Outside now, back pressed against the door, France rests the back of his head for a moment and looks up at the lights. His entire body needs a good scrubbing, especially his face and hair. It’s as if dirt has crawled into every single one of his pores, clogging him up until he’s bursting with hot emotion and almost-despair.
Almost.
France hugs his box of chocolates to his chest, smiles, and moves on to the next room.
________________
...I tried to make it happy. I did.
I’m sorry.