[ oneshot ] Wash Away the Taste [ France/Spain, Hetalia ]
Title: Wash Away the Taste
Author: frostberryjam
Rating: NC-17.
Pairing: France/Spain.
Warnings: None.
Author Notes: So this came out kind of grittier than I expected it to. Not to mention porny. Huh. Anyway. Dedicated to faintdoodles, as it’s her birthday tomorrow. Happy birthday!
Spain washes out the taste of the too-young (bitter, not in a good way) wine out of his mouth by sliding a strawberry-flavored lollipop across the inside of his cheeks and tongue. He watches out of the corner of his eye (vision half accustomed to the sooty darkness of the alley and half adjusted to the glaring lights) as France examines the smoked-red bottle with a scowl and then tosses it to the side, letting the glass crash onto the cracked pavement. It shatters, shards glittering wetly as if bloodied under the garish lights of the red district.
“That fool makes the worst wine ever.” The blond delivers the verdict with a haughty sniff, wiping his hands on his trousers as if he had touched something indelibly distasteful. Spain almost points out -- questions -- what they’re doing in England then, drinking cheap wine (they forgot their wallets and the subway system is so confusing that they gave up trying to figure out how to get back to their hotels) in a grimy street populated by whores, pimps, drug dealers and the occasional crossdresser.
Almost. Not quite. He chuckles instead because he really doesn’t care (the crossdressers in particular are fascinating to talk to, almost copies of Poland) where he is, he’s just following France around because he has nothing better to do, and his brother-nation seems lonely nowadays that Prussia won’t leave his brother’s side (East Germany now, Spain corrects himself. Prussia is East Germany now.) and that England is busy trying to strengthen his special relationship with America, who’s all of the sudden the beloved golden boy of the world again and doesn‘t have time for England anymore. (nothing lights the fire under England’s arse quicker than the threat of abandonment.)
Spain rolls the sweet in his mouth, paper-stick rubbing against his thumb pad as his index finger controls the motion of the swirl. He leans against the dirty wall (it’s really not that dirty -- more like… seen a few years of graffiti upon graffiti) and smiles with closed lips as France turns to him.
France is a little drunk. They might or might not have spend the last of their euros on getting sloshed. Maybe it’s surprising to others but Spain is actually the better drinker of the two, thoughts sharp still even as France walks towards him with a drunken rhythm to his steps.
“Terrible wine.” France complains again; braces an arm on either side of Spain’s head, causing the brunet to pause as the situation registers. He tilts his head up, slightly. “Terrible. Should be outlawed.” He agrees, amused.
France leans down, blue eyes black in the shadows. Their noses bump and Spain snorts. His brother is -- definitely -- intoxicated -- breath full of alcohol -- lips on his cheek --
Spain closes his eyes as the lips mold themselves to his skin exactly the same way as France’s body molds itself to him, pushing him into the gritty, graffitied wall. He wraps his arms loosely around the blonde’s hips and tilts his face as France murmurs something in his native tongue with his mouth still pressed against his cheek, now moving to the end of his jaw, briefly nuzzling his ear mindlessly.
Spain shivers in the middle of the August night.
“I can’t understand you.” He protests, bemused, speaking around the lollipop. France’s only reply is to slide the tip of his tongue around the shell of his ear, causing Spain to nearly choke on the candy.
“Puto, que haces si me ahorco? Borracho.” He complains, panting a little as France slides a leg between his thighs and moves his mouth down the side of his throat, the scraggly beard rubbing against his skin along with the bite of teeth, leaving behind pink marks. Spain’s loose half-hug tightens and he chomps down on the stick as France’s arms stop caging him in order to grip his ass and pull him up.
They’re going to fall. He’s sure of it. Spain automatically wraps his legs around the other’s hips and digs his fingers into the white shirt as France grinds him against into the wall, aligned just so that France can mock-fuck him, causing Spain’s eyes to squeeze shut.
They amazingly don’t fall. Maybe it’s because they’re not quite human, a little stronger (although neither can do the sort of crazy things that America can) -- or they’re just absolutely desperate as France’s lips curve into a smile and he reaches to tug the lollipop out of the Spaniard’s mouth.
He’s surprised when the stick comes out. And only the stick. He stares at the empty end in blank confusion before he stares at Spain’s candy-sweetened mouth and the smile transmutes into a smirk.
“Open your mouth, Antonio.” He murmurs huskily and his sibling obliges, cheeks flushed from the way France’s hips never stop their constant movement.
France tastes a sharp burst of sweetness and flavor underscored with the acrid wine. It doesn’t taste so bad this way, his fingers on Spain’s jaw and his tongue pressing the hard candy from side to side.
Spain’s dark, lush eyelashes flicker open long enough for the slightest hint of passion-blackened green to be revealed. Then France is too distracted to smirk as Spain steals control of the candy back and they’re playing some sort of wicked, wet, sticky ‘keep away’ with the candy, tongues sliding against one another.
France groans as fingers glide into his hair and grip hard. It’s painful but isn’t painful, one more sensation to be lost in. He in turn gropes Spain’s ass, frustrated that there’s clothes in the way but too far gone to think about removing them as his hips roll intimately against the inverted ‘v’ of Spain’s long legs, hot, boiling hot, with sweat running down his back.
The candy disappears. Did it slip out of their mouths? Neither notices. Neither cares. Spain suddenly arches, his spine snapping into a gorgeous curve as his head tilts back, almost hitting the wall. France grips him harder, startled, panting, watching the tanned face caught in a moment of mindless pleasure and hating the fact that there’s not enough light.
Hating the fact also that he’s so damn close and yet not there. France licks his lips and then drawns on Spain’s throat until the body in his arms stops shivering. Then he switches tactics, kissing those swollen lips sweetly and feeling their heat. “Suck me?”
“Mmn?” It's not exactly agreement. More of a questioning sound. But Spain gets the picture as the other nation pointedly puts him down on the ground, numb knees collapsing under him and putting him at precisely eyelevel with the bulge in France’s pants.
With a little laugh (satisfied, husky, arching his neck and head a little like a pleased cat as France threads desperate hands into thick wavy hair) Spain undoes the belt with his fingers even as he lowers the zipper with his teeth carefully, not expecting to find any underwear. Hadn’t happened before, ever, shouldn’t be any different now.
His orgasm still dances on his nerves like the last glittering sparks of a firework burst, making the fact that he came in his own underwear (he’s right, France isn’t wearing anything as the metal teeth of the zipper give away, a hard organ rubbing against Spain’s cheek) not yet uncomfortable as he opens his mouth and swallows the other nation down without pause.
The fingers his hair tighten. Spain uses his tongue with the ease of long practice and rubs the base of France’s cock gently even as he sucks on the rest of it with closed eyes. Then he strokes the tightened ball sac underneath, rubbing his palm against it. A tell-tale shudder runs through France’s body and Spain prepares to brace himself for the cock to thrust and pop down his throat; France instead jerks him back and sighs in bliss as semen splashes on Spain’s lips and cheek, green eyes wide and startled.
France pants, one hand on the wall, the other still buried in dark hair. Spain gives him a bemused stare from below, only partly annoyed as he wipes the semen off his lips with his tongue, swallowing.
There’s definitely no taste of the awful wine left in his mouth.
.
.
.
.
.
.
translation: "Whore, what are you going to do if I choke? Drunkard."
Author: frostberryjam
Rating: NC-17.
Pairing: France/Spain.
Warnings: None.
Author Notes: So this came out kind of grittier than I expected it to. Not to mention porny. Huh. Anyway. Dedicated to faintdoodles, as it’s her birthday tomorrow. Happy birthday!
Spain washes out the taste of the too-young (bitter, not in a good way) wine out of his mouth by sliding a strawberry-flavored lollipop across the inside of his cheeks and tongue. He watches out of the corner of his eye (vision half accustomed to the sooty darkness of the alley and half adjusted to the glaring lights) as France examines the smoked-red bottle with a scowl and then tosses it to the side, letting the glass crash onto the cracked pavement. It shatters, shards glittering wetly as if bloodied under the garish lights of the red district.
“That fool makes the worst wine ever.” The blond delivers the verdict with a haughty sniff, wiping his hands on his trousers as if he had touched something indelibly distasteful. Spain almost points out -- questions -- what they’re doing in England then, drinking cheap wine (they forgot their wallets and the subway system is so confusing that they gave up trying to figure out how to get back to their hotels) in a grimy street populated by whores, pimps, drug dealers and the occasional crossdresser.
Almost. Not quite. He chuckles instead because he really doesn’t care (the crossdressers in particular are fascinating to talk to, almost copies of Poland) where he is, he’s just following France around because he has nothing better to do, and his brother-nation seems lonely nowadays that Prussia won’t leave his brother’s side (East Germany now, Spain corrects himself. Prussia is East Germany now.) and that England is busy trying to strengthen his special relationship with America, who’s all of the sudden the beloved golden boy of the world again and doesn‘t have time for England anymore. (nothing lights the fire under England’s arse quicker than the threat of abandonment.)
Spain rolls the sweet in his mouth, paper-stick rubbing against his thumb pad as his index finger controls the motion of the swirl. He leans against the dirty wall (it’s really not that dirty -- more like… seen a few years of graffiti upon graffiti) and smiles with closed lips as France turns to him.
France is a little drunk. They might or might not have spend the last of their euros on getting sloshed. Maybe it’s surprising to others but Spain is actually the better drinker of the two, thoughts sharp still even as France walks towards him with a drunken rhythm to his steps.
“Terrible wine.” France complains again; braces an arm on either side of Spain’s head, causing the brunet to pause as the situation registers. He tilts his head up, slightly. “Terrible. Should be outlawed.” He agrees, amused.
France leans down, blue eyes black in the shadows. Their noses bump and Spain snorts. His brother is -- definitely -- intoxicated -- breath full of alcohol -- lips on his cheek --
Spain closes his eyes as the lips mold themselves to his skin exactly the same way as France’s body molds itself to him, pushing him into the gritty, graffitied wall. He wraps his arms loosely around the blonde’s hips and tilts his face as France murmurs something in his native tongue with his mouth still pressed against his cheek, now moving to the end of his jaw, briefly nuzzling his ear mindlessly.
Spain shivers in the middle of the August night.
“I can’t understand you.” He protests, bemused, speaking around the lollipop. France’s only reply is to slide the tip of his tongue around the shell of his ear, causing Spain to nearly choke on the candy.
“Puto, que haces si me ahorco? Borracho.” He complains, panting a little as France slides a leg between his thighs and moves his mouth down the side of his throat, the scraggly beard rubbing against his skin along with the bite of teeth, leaving behind pink marks. Spain’s loose half-hug tightens and he chomps down on the stick as France’s arms stop caging him in order to grip his ass and pull him up.
They’re going to fall. He’s sure of it. Spain automatically wraps his legs around the other’s hips and digs his fingers into the white shirt as France grinds him against into the wall, aligned just so that France can mock-fuck him, causing Spain’s eyes to squeeze shut.
They amazingly don’t fall. Maybe it’s because they’re not quite human, a little stronger (although neither can do the sort of crazy things that America can) -- or they’re just absolutely desperate as France’s lips curve into a smile and he reaches to tug the lollipop out of the Spaniard’s mouth.
He’s surprised when the stick comes out. And only the stick. He stares at the empty end in blank confusion before he stares at Spain’s candy-sweetened mouth and the smile transmutes into a smirk.
“Open your mouth, Antonio.” He murmurs huskily and his sibling obliges, cheeks flushed from the way France’s hips never stop their constant movement.
France tastes a sharp burst of sweetness and flavor underscored with the acrid wine. It doesn’t taste so bad this way, his fingers on Spain’s jaw and his tongue pressing the hard candy from side to side.
Spain’s dark, lush eyelashes flicker open long enough for the slightest hint of passion-blackened green to be revealed. Then France is too distracted to smirk as Spain steals control of the candy back and they’re playing some sort of wicked, wet, sticky ‘keep away’ with the candy, tongues sliding against one another.
France groans as fingers glide into his hair and grip hard. It’s painful but isn’t painful, one more sensation to be lost in. He in turn gropes Spain’s ass, frustrated that there’s clothes in the way but too far gone to think about removing them as his hips roll intimately against the inverted ‘v’ of Spain’s long legs, hot, boiling hot, with sweat running down his back.
The candy disappears. Did it slip out of their mouths? Neither notices. Neither cares. Spain suddenly arches, his spine snapping into a gorgeous curve as his head tilts back, almost hitting the wall. France grips him harder, startled, panting, watching the tanned face caught in a moment of mindless pleasure and hating the fact that there’s not enough light.
Hating the fact also that he’s so damn close and yet not there. France licks his lips and then drawns on Spain’s throat until the body in his arms stops shivering. Then he switches tactics, kissing those swollen lips sweetly and feeling their heat. “Suck me?”
“Mmn?” It's not exactly agreement. More of a questioning sound. But Spain gets the picture as the other nation pointedly puts him down on the ground, numb knees collapsing under him and putting him at precisely eyelevel with the bulge in France’s pants.
With a little laugh (satisfied, husky, arching his neck and head a little like a pleased cat as France threads desperate hands into thick wavy hair) Spain undoes the belt with his fingers even as he lowers the zipper with his teeth carefully, not expecting to find any underwear. Hadn’t happened before, ever, shouldn’t be any different now.
His orgasm still dances on his nerves like the last glittering sparks of a firework burst, making the fact that he came in his own underwear (he’s right, France isn’t wearing anything as the metal teeth of the zipper give away, a hard organ rubbing against Spain’s cheek) not yet uncomfortable as he opens his mouth and swallows the other nation down without pause.
The fingers his hair tighten. Spain uses his tongue with the ease of long practice and rubs the base of France’s cock gently even as he sucks on the rest of it with closed eyes. Then he strokes the tightened ball sac underneath, rubbing his palm against it. A tell-tale shudder runs through France’s body and Spain prepares to brace himself for the cock to thrust and pop down his throat; France instead jerks him back and sighs in bliss as semen splashes on Spain’s lips and cheek, green eyes wide and startled.
France pants, one hand on the wall, the other still buried in dark hair. Spain gives him a bemused stare from below, only partly annoyed as he wipes the semen off his lips with his tongue, swallowing.
There’s definitely no taste of the awful wine left in his mouth.
.
.
.
.
.
.
translation: "Whore, what are you going to do if I choke? Drunkard."