“Maybe,” England responded, and that same smile graced his lips again as he released France and slipped into his peacoat, pulling his scarf from the pocket and wrapping himself in the cashmere and wool. France pulled his own coat on and wrapped his arms around England, helping him walk.
“I’m assuming you’re coming back to my hotel, then?” France asked. It was best to be blunt with England when he was drunk.
“O’ course,” England said, his piercing eyes roaming all over France’s face as they walked. “Yer eyes are really blue.” France just stared back, blinking rapidly in confusion. England was being unusually…. Affectionate. Normally England would send him half-hearted insults while simultaneously trying to feel him up as they walked—it was their foreplay, their own personal routine that they’d had for so long it honestly felt strange to have Nice Flirty England in France’s presence. “ ‘Swhat we always do when you come to London.” England gestured to the city with one sweep of his arm. “Gotta have it, gotta keep the tensions from buildin’.” France was torn on whether he should laugh or just be honestly baffled with England’s strange actions—but there was no doubt that the gentle touches to France’s side, leg and inner thigh were speaking volumes.
England leaned against France and slowed their pace over a large patch of ice, but they were reaching the hotel quickly. France brushed past the doorman, tugging England along with him. They hit the elevator, England stumbling in with France behind him, and as soon as France hit the seventh floor and the doors pinged shut, France found himself pushed with his back to the double doors, England grinding against him and laying kisses along his throat.
“We should just—just do it right here,” England murmured as he trailed sloppy kisses along France’s earlobe. “I can’t walk straight to a room.” France closed his eyes and suppressed a groan in the back of his throat, opting for holding onto England’s beltloops and pulling him closer, curling his toes in his boots at the tingling sensation running live beneath his skin.
“A-as much as I would love that,” France replied, his voice heavy and low, “this is a nice hotel. And unlike you—” the elevator doors opened on the seventh floor and both England and France fell out, tumbling to the floor in a heap. France landed on his back with England on top of him, the English nation leaning over him in an alcohol-induced lust-ridden haze. His eyelids were lowered and his eyes practically glowed with an ethereal light; England licked his lips as he stared down at France beneath him, looking properly flushed and eager.
“…unlike you,” France continued, remaining on the lush red carpet, allowing England to bend down and press a kiss to his forehead, “I appreciate the finer things.”
“All you ev’r say is just… clichéd rubbish,” England murmured with his lips still pressed to France’s forehead. Footsteps sounded from around the corner and with France’s urging, England reluctantly rolled off France’s waist and allowed himself to be tugged to his feet and down the other direction of the hallway.
England didn’t seem to want to wait, which was another strange change; as France fumbled with his wallet for his cardkey, England had their hands entwined as he leaned against the doorframe, carefully kissing each knuckle. France couldn’t stop his face from heating up at the tender emotion England displayed with each peck. Again, normally England would be denying his obvious arousal and still attempting to rile France up with some lie or ruse about one thing or another and then their sex would be wild and angry and insanely passionate. But something else was going on tonight.
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That Old Song and Dance - 2
(Anonymous) 2012-02-10 02:08 pm (UTC)(link)“I’m assuming you’re coming back to my hotel, then?” France asked. It was best to be blunt with England when he was drunk.
“O’ course,” England said, his piercing eyes roaming all over France’s face as they walked. “Yer eyes are really blue.” France just stared back, blinking rapidly in confusion. England was being unusually…. Affectionate. Normally England would send him half-hearted insults while simultaneously trying to feel him up as they walked—it was their foreplay, their own personal routine that they’d had for so long it honestly felt strange to have Nice Flirty England in France’s presence. “ ‘Swhat we always do when you come to London.” England gestured to the city with one sweep of his arm. “Gotta have it, gotta keep the tensions from buildin’.” France was torn on whether he should laugh or just be honestly baffled with England’s strange actions—but there was no doubt that the gentle touches to France’s side, leg and inner thigh were speaking volumes.
England leaned against France and slowed their pace over a large patch of ice, but they were reaching the hotel quickly. France brushed past the doorman, tugging England along with him. They hit the elevator, England stumbling in with France behind him, and as soon as France hit the seventh floor and the doors pinged shut, France found himself pushed with his back to the double doors, England grinding against him and laying kisses along his throat.
“We should just—just do it right here,” England murmured as he trailed sloppy kisses along France’s earlobe. “I can’t walk straight to a room.” France closed his eyes and suppressed a groan in the back of his throat, opting for holding onto England’s beltloops and pulling him closer, curling his toes in his boots at the tingling sensation running live beneath his skin.
“A-as much as I would love that,” France replied, his voice heavy and low, “this is a nice hotel. And unlike you—” the elevator doors opened on the seventh floor and both England and France fell out, tumbling to the floor in a heap. France landed on his back with England on top of him, the English nation leaning over him in an alcohol-induced lust-ridden haze. His eyelids were lowered and his eyes practically glowed with an ethereal light; England licked his lips as he stared down at France beneath him, looking properly flushed and eager.
“…unlike you,” France continued, remaining on the lush red carpet, allowing England to bend down and press a kiss to his forehead, “I appreciate the finer things.”
“All you ev’r say is just… clichéd rubbish,” England murmured with his lips still pressed to France’s forehead. Footsteps sounded from around the corner and with France’s urging, England reluctantly rolled off France’s waist and allowed himself to be tugged to his feet and down the other direction of the hallway.
England didn’t seem to want to wait, which was another strange change; as France fumbled with his wallet for his cardkey, England had their hands entwined as he leaned against the doorframe, carefully kissing each knuckle. France couldn’t stop his face from heating up at the tender emotion England displayed with each peck. Again, normally England would be denying his obvious arousal and still attempting to rile France up with some lie or ruse about one thing or another and then their sex would be wild and angry and insanely passionate. But something else was going on tonight.