“At least I didn’t go down in history as a nation of dumb fucks,” Canada says in response, upending a bottle and letting the liquid slosh in. France’s eyes flicker up to America’s face--Canada will be feeling that later, for certain.
“When you’re quite done--” England starts, but Canada silences him by shoving the half-filled bucket in his face and marching over to get another bottle of wine. “Thank you. America, go help your brother.”
“But--”
“Go, or so help me God I will string you up, give Canada a hockey stick, and let him go wild.”
America opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again, but then Canada snickers and America turns on his heel, hissing out a swear as he goes to help his brother.
“They’re such good boys, aren’t they?” England whispers, and licks the shell of France’s ear. “Have to do something about that antagonism, though--maybe have one of them give a good, hard, lubeless fuck to the other. Show them who’s boss.” France feels the nozzle inside of him shift, move, as England’s fingers do something behind his back. France almost turns his head to look--
And England’s free hand comes up to force him to look ahead, down the catacombs, into the deep and fathomless darkness.
“No peeking,” Arthur says, and Francis feels something rubbery against his thigh as England drops it. More shifting--and the tube becomes stiffer, fuller all of a sudden.
France knows what’s coming. His eyes widen.
And the safe word--finally--slips out.
“Alouette.”
The air goes still for a moment. France can hear himself breathe, the forced gasps of air going in, out, in.
“What was that?” England purrs, as America and Canada stand up, a bottle of wine in each hand. “I don’t think I heard you.”
Wetness splashes against France’s insides, and when he speaks, his voice goes higher, more desperate. “Alouette,” he says again, and his stomach begins to churn as his innards start to sear. “Alouette, England, alouette, alouette--”
“Louder, France, you really must speak up--”
“Alouette, Angleterre, for the love of God, ALOUE--”
“SHUT UP!”
Something hard smacks him in the back of the head; the world explodes into bright little lights, and around him, France hears glass tinkling against the stone. France’s head sinks forward, and he watches bloated purple blots bloom against the stone. Footsteps, and then gentle fingers lift his chin.
France finds himself staring into green eyes, and for the first time he has no idea what to expect.
“Alouette,” he whimpers, and his voice is as shattered as the glass shards littered around his legs. “You--you promised, England. I say the safeword, and you--”
“Yes, yes, I let you free,” England says. His half-lidded, tight-jawed gaze doesn’t change, even as his fingers tighten on France’s mandible.
“I lied. You don’t deserve to be let free.”
France’s entire body goes numb with fear, and England’s lips quirk up--just a brief little tic. And then France winces, grunts and curls in on himself because his stomach hurts, the slightest little move will send it all sloshing about inside of him and his innards ache with cramps and cheap red wine.
England drops his chin and walks behind France again. “America,” he says, and France shuts his eyes and pants. “Stop staring at your brother like you’re going to throttle him.”
“Why am I getting yelled at when he’s the pussy who’s--”
“Fuck’s sake, America, if it will shut you up and relax you, go fuck France’s mouth.”
More silence. France’s fingertips go cold, curl in towards his palms.
“I can?” America asks, and he sounds so tiny, so innocent. “I--you’ll really let me?”
“Yes, God, just shut yourself up and stop glaring at Canada. Knock yourself out--it’s not like France hasn’t done that on anyone we know.”
America lets out a whoop. France cannot even lift his head to look at him as he stampedes over, wine-bottle glass crunching underfoot. For a brief second, France sees America bend down, pluck something off the ground.
And then France feels his ears get squeezed between two clenched hands, his head lifted up to see the bulge protruding from his jeans.
Lambrusco [2/4]
“When you’re quite done--” England starts, but Canada silences him by shoving the half-filled bucket in his face and marching over to get another bottle of wine. “Thank you. America, go help your brother.”
“But--”
“Go, or so help me God I will string you up, give Canada a hockey stick, and let him go wild.”
America opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again, but then Canada snickers and America turns on his heel, hissing out a swear as he goes to help his brother.
“They’re such good boys, aren’t they?” England whispers, and licks the shell of France’s ear. “Have to do something about that antagonism, though--maybe have one of them give a good, hard, lubeless fuck to the other. Show them who’s boss.” France feels the nozzle inside of him shift, move, as England’s fingers do something behind his back. France almost turns his head to look--
And England’s free hand comes up to force him to look ahead, down the catacombs, into the deep and fathomless darkness.
“No peeking,” Arthur says, and Francis feels something rubbery against his thigh as England drops it. More shifting--and the tube becomes stiffer, fuller all of a sudden.
France knows what’s coming. His eyes widen.
And the safe word--finally--slips out.
“Alouette.”
The air goes still for a moment. France can hear himself breathe, the forced gasps of air going in, out, in.
“What was that?” England purrs, as America and Canada stand up, a bottle of wine in each hand. “I don’t think I heard you.”
Wetness splashes against France’s insides, and when he speaks, his voice goes higher, more desperate. “Alouette,” he says again, and his stomach begins to churn as his innards start to sear. “Alouette, England, alouette, alouette--”
“Louder, France, you really must speak up--”
“Alouette, Angleterre, for the love of God, ALOUE--”
“SHUT UP!”
Something hard smacks him in the back of the head; the world explodes into bright little lights, and around him, France hears glass tinkling against the stone. France’s head sinks forward, and he watches bloated purple blots bloom against the stone. Footsteps, and then gentle fingers lift his chin.
France finds himself staring into green eyes, and for the first time he has no idea what to expect.
“Alouette,” he whimpers, and his voice is as shattered as the glass shards littered around his legs. “You--you promised, England. I say the safeword, and you--”
“Yes, yes, I let you free,” England says. His half-lidded, tight-jawed gaze doesn’t change, even as his fingers tighten on France’s mandible.
“I lied. You don’t deserve to be let free.”
France’s entire body goes numb with fear, and England’s lips quirk up--just a brief little tic. And then France winces, grunts and curls in on himself because his stomach hurts, the slightest little move will send it all sloshing about inside of him and his innards ache with cramps and cheap red wine.
England drops his chin and walks behind France again. “America,” he says, and France shuts his eyes and pants. “Stop staring at your brother like you’re going to throttle him.”
“Why am I getting yelled at when he’s the pussy who’s--”
“Fuck’s sake, America, if it will shut you up and relax you, go fuck France’s mouth.”
More silence. France’s fingertips go cold, curl in towards his palms.
“I can?” America asks, and he sounds so tiny, so innocent. “I--you’ll really let me?”
“Yes, God, just shut yourself up and stop glaring at Canada. Knock yourself out--it’s not like France hasn’t done that on anyone we know.”
America lets out a whoop. France cannot even lift his head to look at him as he stampedes over, wine-bottle glass crunching underfoot. For a brief second, France sees America bend down, pluck something off the ground.
And then France feels his ears get squeezed between two clenched hands, his head lifted up to see the bulge protruding from his jeans.