Hetalia Kink meme part 9 -- CLOSED
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hetalia kink meme
part 9
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( Christmas Reveals )
Vodka leaves no trace in breath. It doesn’t smell; it doesn’t hurt. Canada forgot how many he had drunk; he licks his lips and feels nothing, his body is all numb. He reaches a hand towards his face and accidently skews his glasses. Russia laughs, pats his back, straights his glasses. His hands are cool on Canada’s cheek, and this he feels. This soft pressure of fingertips. He feels a hand over his chest, pinching his nipple. Doesn’t hurt, like vodka. He lunges, rubs his lips against his. Russia laughs; accepts. Vodka doesn’t smell; doesn’t stink. Russia tastes of nothing.
His back hurts when it collides with the walls of his hotel room. His lips are numb, but he feels the tongue that slides against his; feels the teeth clicking. Canada isn’t thinking; his mind is numb too. Russia’s body is bigger and covers his on the wall, pressing him in, sandwiching him there. Canada pushes his overcoat out, tugs the ends of his scarf in; brings him closer, licks the roof of his mouth, his palate. Russia hums and the vibrations rock his entire being. Canada moans in French.
His glasses fall along with his shirt, but his eyes are closed so it doesn’t matter. Russia lifts him up; puts his legs around his waist; grinds. Canada has his head against the wall, mouth hanging wide open. He grinds back. Russia nudges the underside of his jaw, where the skin is softer, then down to his Adam’s apple, following the erratic bobs. Canada feels the vodka burn in the pit of his stomach, or maybe it’s something else entirely.
The room is dark, and Canada doesn’t see the loops as he yanks Russia’s belt away. He unzips; slides his hands inside; rubs. Russia moans in Russian. Canada’s feet are back on the ground and his socks feels too hot; too tight. Russia’s short fingernails scrap his scalp and it feels good. Canada grips, Russia hisses. He brings his head up; big nose feels foreign against his cheek, nose, chin.
The room spins under his closed lids, and Canada grips harder. Russia’s knees almost buckle. He breathes harder; groans. They move from the wall, but Russia bumps into a corner and they lose their unstable balance, falling in heap of tangled limbs onto the carpet. Russia chuckles; low and husky. Canada opens his eyes, the world blurs. The friction burns.
Russia hovers over him, one hand beside his head for balance, another undoing his trousers; feeling his skin. Canada arches and his shoulders burn; he smiles. Burning feels good; he can feel burning. He closes his legs over Russia’s hips, grinds again, again. It feels better now; so infinitely better.
Russia’s hand near his head closes around his hair, pulls. He grinds harder; grins wider. Russia kisses his neck open-mouthed, breathing heavily. Canada sighs; breathes. Russia traces his foreskin; strokes. Canada arches; the carpet burns, Russia bites, the room spins.
Canada scrapes his back against the carpet. Oui; oui, mon cher, oui. One hand pulls his hair tighter, the other strokes faster. His breath hitches. Russia thrusts below; groans. Oui.
Canada comes; arches his back. Russia mouths his yell, swallows. Canada rubs himself against him, needy and high and drunk.
Canada grabs him again; pumps; pulls; drags. Russia exhales, да.
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Genuinely arousing, anon.
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