[ oneshot ] The Night Belongs to Lovers
Title: Because the Night Belongs to Lovers
Author: frostberryjam
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1,300
Pairing: England/Spain/Netherlands
Warnings: Irredeemable smut. ... almost oc!Netherlands?
Summary: They’ll all want to blame it on the alcohol the next morning but that’s then, and this is now.
Author Notes: I tried to resist writing something with Netherlands, I really, really did! Thus I blame this on youkofujima for encouraging this madness. Also, happy birthday my darling little sister hitori_kanane! Always remember that I love you and know you're just going to get more awesome here on in.
England wants to shrug the blame off on the alcohol for the heat coiled low in his abdomen. But he knows he hasn’t had near enough of the stuff to blame it for the way he’s sucking on Spain’s tongue, although he does feel intoxicated. Nails are digging into his scalp, sharp points of pain that flare in and out of his awareness. There’s weight on his chest, stomach, and then Spain settles against him intimately and heavily, pressed down by Netherlands.
They’re moving like they’ve done this before, working together instinctively in a matched pace. England grips Spain’s neck and feels Netherlands’s lips against his fingers as the Northern nation moves his tongue between the separations, tasting them both. England’s heart thuds nervously and he kisses Spain until they’re both short on breath against each other’s faces.
“Clothing.” Netherlands reminds them, already without a shirt of his own and gripping the hem of Spain‘s. Limbs disentangle reluctantly. Spain balances himself on his knees and raises his arms for his former colony to jerk the shirt away, gold chain catching at the collar. England clumsily frees it only to get tangled with the cross at the end that glints and is cold in the palm of his hand. Frustration rises and he tugs impatiently, causing Spain to wince as the chain cuts into his nape before it snaps. There’s a musical chime as the cross strikes the floor.
There’s movement and the chair groans under their excited exertions, and Spain still ends in the middle but on Netherlands’s lap, both facing England. If he could be allowed a moment to think, he might stop, reconsider how an innocent night out drinking led them to a hotel room doing this but Spain’s flashing him a knowing, understanding smile and is already working on unbuckling the blond’s slacks.
England can’t claim to know a great deal of people who can resist once Spain’s fingers are ghosting across their cocks, definitely not France or South Italy but the less said about them under the circumstances, the better. He swallows as Spain pushes the slacks down enough to bring him out for fondling, meeting Netherlands’s cool blue eyes over Spain’s shoulder.
Netherlands smiles slightly, wickedly, hands poised on Spain’s chest like a maestro’s suspenseful pause above ivory keys that builds anticipation before the piece starts.
It’s… pretty, those long white hands on bronzed skin, and Spain shivers as Netherlands kisses his shoulder and strokes his chest, feather light. It’s ticklish and Spain laughs, stroking England in the same manner.
England doesn’t feel like laughing. He grips the tanned wrist and urges Spain to apply more pressure. Maybe he’s the only one who’s feeling desperation; the other two are acting like they could stroke and kiss and lick all night without hurry but that’s not what he wants.
“He’s being very--ah--” Spain wets his lips as Netherlands’s idle path ends between his legs. “--impatient tonight.”
Netherlands sounds too entertained for England’s liking. “Maybe we should put him under a cold shower.”
“Like hell you are.” England snaps, barely cutting off ‘you bloody wankers’ because it’d backfire on him in the mood they’re in. They might lock him out stark naked in the hallway, insufferable as they can be when childish whim strikes--
“Ballocks.” England’s hands clamp on the armrests of the chair and he thinks dazedly ‘good, solid British furniture’ when it sustains their combined weight, even though it’s from Ikea, and Spain draws his length deeper into his mouth and licks like it’s made of candy. England finds himself staring into those cool blue eyes again from up close and then sighs into Netherlands’s mouth.
It’s all awkward balance when there are three of them like this. England’s arched over Spain with his knuckles bleaching white as he clings to the armrest from above. Netherlands has hands on Spain’s lower back to make sure Spain doesn’t slide off his lap while he steadily rides between Spain’s ass cheeks with slow rolls of his hips, and Spain is grazing ever so slightly England’s cock with his teeth.
Netherlands tilts his head, breaking their kiss. England breathes erratically, tasting something that almost seems sickly-sweet in his mouth as if he’d smoked a joint. It’s not the time to ask and Netherlands is patting his pockets for something, still wearing his jeans, and England closes his eyes once he sees a squeeze-tube of lube magically appear.
Maybe later he’ll wonder if this wasn’t somehow all planned, or if Netherlands gets around more than he lets on.
England distracts himself and Spain by straightening again, sinking his fingers over and over into dark brown hair, almost made black by the hotel room’s single lit lamp by the bed. They should really move over to it but none of them are inclined to change positions.
Netherlands warms his slick fingers but it still provokes a jerk out of Spain as a digit delicately probes at his entrance and then steadily slides in. England can see some of it, even though he’s almost squeezed his eyes shut. Spain’s tongue continues to work feverishly, drawing back far enough to work on the head exclusively.
He would like to blame the alcohol on how quickly he starts to shake and lose control. He has much more poise than that, he’s not a schoolboy with his first nudie magazine, he’s an Empire. But Spain’s lips are velvety soft and his tongue clever, and England gives up arguing with himself and his pride and groans thickly as he comes, fingers twitching in the dark brown hair. Spain swallows but pulls back abruptly before England’s done, saying something low and definitely sacrilegious as Netherlands pushes into him from the other end.
“A little warning next time, si te accuerdas,” Spain inhales shakily. There’s white on his lips and running down the corner of his mouth. England backs away and then with a thump he’s on the floor with his slacks around his knees and looking up at the other two still on the chair.
Netherlands’s graceful fingers pluck at dark nipples and bring Spain up. They both hiss as gravity helps them meet hip to ass.
“You enjoy it.” Netherlands whispers, and Spain’s reply is barely a word, one England can't understand. Spain is then the one to grip the arms of the chair as Netherlands holds his hips. They move into a steady rhythm. With small lifts and precise thrusts, tiny increments of speed that almost go unnoticed.
England’s watching. England notices.
He kicks the slacks off and tentatively places himself between their legs, striving to not get kicked or kneed in the face. Spain’s teeth are digging into his lower lip to keep from making noise -- the room’s not soundproofed -- and Netherlands has buried his face into the crook of the Spaniard’s neck, praying, kissing or biting, England can’t tell.
He can’t suck Spain off with all their squirming and movement, so he settles for wrapping a hand around Spain, calloused palm against swollen flesh.
And Spain moans his name with a little sob at the end of it. A frisson of remembrance makes England’s fingers tighten. Spain’s said his name that way before, not out of pleasure.
Netherlands jerks against Spain roughly and fucks him with short, hard thrusts that has England’s hand wet with come in moments. Then there’s tense silence, white hands gripping forcefully enough to leave bruises, Netherlands perfectly molded to Spain’s back as if they were meant to fit that way, geography be damned.
England exhales a spent breath, smelling sweat and sex and nowhere near as much alcohol as they’re going to need to blame this on when they wake up tomorrow.
Author: frostberryjam
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1,300
Pairing: England/Spain/Netherlands
Warnings: Irredeemable smut. ... almost oc!Netherlands?
Summary: They’ll all want to blame it on the alcohol the next morning but that’s then, and this is now.
Author Notes: I tried to resist writing something with Netherlands, I really, really did! Thus I blame this on youkofujima for encouraging this madness. Also, happy birthday my darling little sister hitori_kanane! Always remember that I love you and know you're just going to get more awesome here on in.
England wants to shrug the blame off on the alcohol for the heat coiled low in his abdomen. But he knows he hasn’t had near enough of the stuff to blame it for the way he’s sucking on Spain’s tongue, although he does feel intoxicated. Nails are digging into his scalp, sharp points of pain that flare in and out of his awareness. There’s weight on his chest, stomach, and then Spain settles against him intimately and heavily, pressed down by Netherlands.
They’re moving like they’ve done this before, working together instinctively in a matched pace. England grips Spain’s neck and feels Netherlands’s lips against his fingers as the Northern nation moves his tongue between the separations, tasting them both. England’s heart thuds nervously and he kisses Spain until they’re both short on breath against each other’s faces.
“Clothing.” Netherlands reminds them, already without a shirt of his own and gripping the hem of Spain‘s. Limbs disentangle reluctantly. Spain balances himself on his knees and raises his arms for his former colony to jerk the shirt away, gold chain catching at the collar. England clumsily frees it only to get tangled with the cross at the end that glints and is cold in the palm of his hand. Frustration rises and he tugs impatiently, causing Spain to wince as the chain cuts into his nape before it snaps. There’s a musical chime as the cross strikes the floor.
There’s movement and the chair groans under their excited exertions, and Spain still ends in the middle but on Netherlands’s lap, both facing England. If he could be allowed a moment to think, he might stop, reconsider how an innocent night out drinking led them to a hotel room doing this but Spain’s flashing him a knowing, understanding smile and is already working on unbuckling the blond’s slacks.
England can’t claim to know a great deal of people who can resist once Spain’s fingers are ghosting across their cocks, definitely not France or South Italy but the less said about them under the circumstances, the better. He swallows as Spain pushes the slacks down enough to bring him out for fondling, meeting Netherlands’s cool blue eyes over Spain’s shoulder.
Netherlands smiles slightly, wickedly, hands poised on Spain’s chest like a maestro’s suspenseful pause above ivory keys that builds anticipation before the piece starts.
It’s… pretty, those long white hands on bronzed skin, and Spain shivers as Netherlands kisses his shoulder and strokes his chest, feather light. It’s ticklish and Spain laughs, stroking England in the same manner.
England doesn’t feel like laughing. He grips the tanned wrist and urges Spain to apply more pressure. Maybe he’s the only one who’s feeling desperation; the other two are acting like they could stroke and kiss and lick all night without hurry but that’s not what he wants.
“He’s being very--ah--” Spain wets his lips as Netherlands’s idle path ends between his legs. “--impatient tonight.”
Netherlands sounds too entertained for England’s liking. “Maybe we should put him under a cold shower.”
“Like hell you are.” England snaps, barely cutting off ‘you bloody wankers’ because it’d backfire on him in the mood they’re in. They might lock him out stark naked in the hallway, insufferable as they can be when childish whim strikes--
“Ballocks.” England’s hands clamp on the armrests of the chair and he thinks dazedly ‘good, solid British furniture’ when it sustains their combined weight, even though it’s from Ikea, and Spain draws his length deeper into his mouth and licks like it’s made of candy. England finds himself staring into those cool blue eyes again from up close and then sighs into Netherlands’s mouth.
It’s all awkward balance when there are three of them like this. England’s arched over Spain with his knuckles bleaching white as he clings to the armrest from above. Netherlands has hands on Spain’s lower back to make sure Spain doesn’t slide off his lap while he steadily rides between Spain’s ass cheeks with slow rolls of his hips, and Spain is grazing ever so slightly England’s cock with his teeth.
Netherlands tilts his head, breaking their kiss. England breathes erratically, tasting something that almost seems sickly-sweet in his mouth as if he’d smoked a joint. It’s not the time to ask and Netherlands is patting his pockets for something, still wearing his jeans, and England closes his eyes once he sees a squeeze-tube of lube magically appear.
Maybe later he’ll wonder if this wasn’t somehow all planned, or if Netherlands gets around more than he lets on.
England distracts himself and Spain by straightening again, sinking his fingers over and over into dark brown hair, almost made black by the hotel room’s single lit lamp by the bed. They should really move over to it but none of them are inclined to change positions.
Netherlands warms his slick fingers but it still provokes a jerk out of Spain as a digit delicately probes at his entrance and then steadily slides in. England can see some of it, even though he’s almost squeezed his eyes shut. Spain’s tongue continues to work feverishly, drawing back far enough to work on the head exclusively.
He would like to blame the alcohol on how quickly he starts to shake and lose control. He has much more poise than that, he’s not a schoolboy with his first nudie magazine, he’s an Empire. But Spain’s lips are velvety soft and his tongue clever, and England gives up arguing with himself and his pride and groans thickly as he comes, fingers twitching in the dark brown hair. Spain swallows but pulls back abruptly before England’s done, saying something low and definitely sacrilegious as Netherlands pushes into him from the other end.
“A little warning next time, si te accuerdas,” Spain inhales shakily. There’s white on his lips and running down the corner of his mouth. England backs away and then with a thump he’s on the floor with his slacks around his knees and looking up at the other two still on the chair.
Netherlands’s graceful fingers pluck at dark nipples and bring Spain up. They both hiss as gravity helps them meet hip to ass.
“You enjoy it.” Netherlands whispers, and Spain’s reply is barely a word, one England can't understand. Spain is then the one to grip the arms of the chair as Netherlands holds his hips. They move into a steady rhythm. With small lifts and precise thrusts, tiny increments of speed that almost go unnoticed.
England’s watching. England notices.
He kicks the slacks off and tentatively places himself between their legs, striving to not get kicked or kneed in the face. Spain’s teeth are digging into his lower lip to keep from making noise -- the room’s not soundproofed -- and Netherlands has buried his face into the crook of the Spaniard’s neck, praying, kissing or biting, England can’t tell.
He can’t suck Spain off with all their squirming and movement, so he settles for wrapping a hand around Spain, calloused palm against swollen flesh.
And Spain moans his name with a little sob at the end of it. A frisson of remembrance makes England’s fingers tighten. Spain’s said his name that way before, not out of pleasure.
Netherlands jerks against Spain roughly and fucks him with short, hard thrusts that has England’s hand wet with come in moments. Then there’s tense silence, white hands gripping forcefully enough to leave bruises, Netherlands perfectly molded to Spain’s back as if they were meant to fit that way, geography be damned.
England exhales a spent breath, smelling sweat and sex and nowhere near as much alcohol as they’re going to need to blame this on when they wake up tomorrow.