In Flight Self Service 1/?
anonymous
March 11 2010, 23:12:43 UTC
(Anon apologizes for being a n00b in advance. D: )
England chewed his lip. Lately those god forsaken meetings had been taking a lot out of him. America was more obnoxious than usual, Italy’s stupid comments about Pasta were pissing him off, Russia’s constant presence was driving him up a wall and France…
He wasn’t going to start on France.
England moaned softly as he continued his “stress-relieving exercise” in the airplane’s cramped bathroom. Although he tried to deny it entirely, for some unknown reason he couldn’t help but find France less annoying than he had been. It hadn’t happened overnight, surely, but something was different. Judging from the many times Francis’ drunken face had appeared in his thoughts the last few “stress-relief sessions” something had definitely changed.
The airplane hit turbulence, rocking violently. England was momentarily thrown off balance, but he braced himself against the wall and continued. He cursed under his breath, then quickly stifled a particularly deep groan. The engines were loud, but not that loud.
It’d been his stupid idea to do it in this bloody contraption anyway. He’d gone and gotten himself slightly aroused in his seat and before he knew it, here he was in this hot, cramped space trying to get off. There was a problem, however; nothing was happening. England was still aroused, but he couldn’t relieve himself in one way or the other.
The other passengers were obviously too wrapped up in their own conversations and debates to notice he was gone, but if one of the nations were to need the bathroom, Iggy would find himself in a very embarrassing predicament.
His face flushed, sweat beading on his forehead and his mouth wide open, England moved his fingers faster in frustration. An image of Francis in a less than dignified position, legs spread wide and waiting ran through his mind. This was bad. He knew it was bad even before he’d decided to go through with the idea. But he couldn’t stop now. It was too late.
Panting, he leaned his head gently against the wall, stroking his length and playing with the tip. He felt warm, and it all felt good, but it wasn’t enough. The harder he forced himself, the less feeling he got and he remained just too aroused to simply stop and forget. He tilted his head back, brows still knitted together in agitation, mouth wide, and rubbed himself between his thighs while one hand stroked his length with the other gently playing around the edge of his anal opening. Pleasure shot through him and he stiffened. He felt the climax; he was almost there. Just a little more…
There was a knock at the door and England choked down a blissful moan. Shit! Everything he worked his arousal up to melted away.
“Just - Just a moment, please!” He called out nervously.
“Yes, yes. Just hurry it along, Arthur,” replied a smooth, but irritated voice. “Some of us need to use the lavatory as well, mon ami.” It was barely audible over the roar of the engines, but England would recognize the voice of that over-confident, pompous, flirty, drunken bastard anywhere. His blood ran cold even as his pulse raced. Why!? Why now? Damn the bloody twat to hell. He probably drank too many wine samplers. Why hadn’t he gone before they’d gotten on this rotten machine?
England’s hand tightened and he tugged more urgently at his member. Come on, dammit! It was never this hard to finish. A few moments came and went, and still he tried. He was almost there, he could feel it, but however much he felt, it didn’t seem to be enough. He was a hot, sweaty, panting mess of a man and with nothing but slightly sticky fingers to show for it.
Re: In Flight Self Service 2/?
anonymous
March 11 2010, 23:17:09 UTC
France jiggled the doorknob impatiently.
“What can you possibly be doing in there, Arthur?” He continued fiddling with the handle. “You’ve been in there for almost an hour! Bowel troubles? Shy bladder?” he snickered cruelly.
England managed to get his pants higher than his ankles, and he stood up, pressing himself against the door. He shuddered as the cold plastic made contact with his burning manhood. Blushing embarrassedly, panting, and still horribly aroused, he carefully opened the door, peering out at France.
“Finally! I thought-” France stopped suddenly, a look of surprise on his face. “Oh, mon ami, what ARE we up to in this small room?”
“I-” England started. He couldn’t say anything else without stuttering, so he swallowed hard instead. France was watching him closely seeming concerned.
“Arthur, you look sick. Do you require moi to assist you?” Worry crept into the other nation’s voice and England felt touched, but at the same time he really didn’t want France to come in.
“N-no! No! I-I just need a-a few moments, Francis!” Panic laced his voice and France raised his eyebrows, but didn’t back away from the bathroom. “Please!” England hissed in desperation. He was becoming painfully firm again and it was getting to the point where he couldn’t bear to stand much longer. A knowing look crossed France’s face and he grinned.
“Are we being naughty?”
England clenched his eyes shut. “Francis. Please!”
“I see, mon ami,” France chuckled, “But you really must hurry, I have need of the lavatory myself.” He turned around and leaned against the wall beside the door. “Finish it up quickly.”
England let out a sigh of relief as he closed the door. But he found it even harder to relieve himself now that France was right outside. Waiting. To make matters worse, he found that he couldn’t think of anything BUT Francis. His face, his eyes, that less than dignified position…
England felt himself harden and quickly went with that scenario, ignoring how twisted it made him. He rubbed himself red. He stroked his member sticky. He fingered himself frantically. But he couldn’t get his quivering length any further. The poor nation bit his sleeve and whimpered.
France jiggled the doorknob again and England felt his self control slipping. The engines of the plane were terribly loud, and frankly, they hurt his ears. The bloody contraption rocked far too much for his liking. His week had been horrible. He was tense, annoyed and stressed out much more than was necessary and now…
Tears welled up in England’s eyes. Now he couldn’t even pleasure himself. It was so cruel! It was unfair! His breath came in sharp bursts and he just barely kept himself from sobbing. All of his dignity lost. In a damned airplane restroom, no less!
“Monsieur, pardon, but I am in need of the lavatory. I feel I must remind you. Mon bladder is not made from steel. ” France’s voice came from outside the small room. It had a sense of urgency about it, and Arthur felt guilty about keeping the Frenchman’s obviously abused bladder waiting. The Gods only knew how much the man drank AND how long he held it just to continue drinking his blasted wine.
England wiped his face on his sleeve, but the tears still flowed freely down his cheeks and his forehead was still damp. He couldn’t leave the restroom like this! Not in this state, sweating, flushed and still quite visibly aroused. Then an idea dawned on him.
No. No, he couldn’t possibly…
But he was having a hell of a hard time doing it himself. England was desperate. And desperate times call for desperate measures. Steeling himself against rejection, the nation rose once again and pressed himself carefully against the door, turning the knob gently and peeking out.
“Fran-Francis, uh-“
“Oh, mon DIEU!” France cried, forcing himself through the door into the tiny compartment. England came slightly away from the door, pushed off balance by France’s abrupt action. “Do just move over! I am tired of waiting, monsieur and -“
England shuddered, suppressing a gasp as France’s gaudy coat brushed against his throbbing manhood. France visibly froze. He eyed the other nation with a peculiar look on his face. England felt himself blush beneath France’s gaze.
Re: In Flight Self Service 3/?
anonymous
March 11 2010, 23:20:54 UTC
There was no way the bastard couldn’t have noticed. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but France turned away.
“Pardon moi, but I really do need to relieve myself,” He said shortly, unzipping his pants.
England couldn’t help but glance at the other nation’s vital regions as he pressed his back against the wall. France’s hand gripped firmly but gently around his shaft aiming downward…
England’s chest tightened and he felt a little dizzy. He shouldn’t, oh he knew he shouldn’t; it was unforgivable, but he felt himself trembling at the thought of France’s hand maybe gripping him firmly but gently. Stroking, stroking…
England’s fingers found themselves shaking as he tried to resist the urge to pleasure himself in front of France. It was becoming unbearable and the thoughts didn’t stop entering his mind. So many positions. So many places to touch. The excitement of doing it in this god forsaken piece of flying aluminum.
England pushed against the wall, muscles tense and his eyes clenched shut as he tried not to think. His hand crept ever so slowly toward his wet, quivering length and all he wanted to do was stroke himself into bliss.
Suddenly, he felt delicate, well manicured fingers teasing the base of his member. Startled, England’s eyes shot open and he met France’s amused gaze. The other nation had obviously finished relieving himself and was all too kindly assisting in England’s pursuit of happiness. England involuntarily stiffened; he still didn’t trust Francis any farther than he could throw the bastard. And due to height and weight differences, that wasn’t very far.
“Oh, non non non… This will not do, Iggy,” France purred, a wicked smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Monsieur is much too tense…” He pressed in closer and England gasped as France took hold of his shaft and gently stroked. But the wine-freak’s hand never went to the tip and he didn’t apply any more pressure, nor did he even attempt to move any faster.
One of England’s arms wrapped around France’s neck for support, the other hand lie on top of France’s, trying to force a tighter grip. His hands were surprisingly strong and did not buckle despite England’s many attempts.
Why won’t he go any faster? Why doesn’t he touch the rest? Why won’t he press more firmly?
England’s breath started to come faster and he felt the tears of frustration welling up in his eyes again. He was horny as all hell and this wine-drinking bastard was just going to - to play cock-tease with him! He whimpered as a surge of pleasure caused his back to arch.
France chuckled as England’s hips thrust awkwardly. “Ah, you are rushing, Arthur. You must tell me what the problem is first, mon ami.”
England grit his teeth. The froggy bastard was doing this on purpose. Like hell he was going to tell Francis what was wrong! He squirmed, but France only laughed.
“Mon, ami! S'il vous plait! Please, you must tell me.”
“I- I don’t…I have…“ England panted, far too focused on his erect member to think very clearly. “I can’t…can’t…come. I keep trying and trying, but…I can’t!” His voice became more desperate and he choked back the lump in his throat. “No matter h-how-how hard I try I d-don’t get anything!” Tears ran down his face and he stared up at France.
Who decided this was the appropriate moment to burst out laughing.
Disgusted, England shoved him out of the way and moved over to the toilet. He should never have expected anything from that froggy, wine-drinking bastard in the first place. He knew France was just messing with him. He bit back a frustrated cry and clenched his eyes shut.
Re: In Flight Self Service 4/4
anonymous
March 11 2010, 23:23:30 UTC
England leaned over the toilet, his forearm pressing against the wall to support him as he gripped himself firmly. He didn’t need Francis to get off. Except that he felt nothing now that he was touching himself. He tried for a few minutes, but the most he got was a throbbing, quivering member that was beginning to hurt.
Warm, smooth skin caressed his inner thigh and England felt his knees weaken. France pressed against the man’s back, tickling his neck with his soft, hot breath. England shivered and felt his length throb as France ran his tongue around his ear.
The nation let out a contented grunt and France slid his hand down England’s stomach, eventually reaching England’s fingers. He ran his hand up to the tip of England’s member and gently kneaded it between his middle and index fingers and his thumb.
Ecstasy flooded over England and he felt his hips move involuntarily. France removed his hand from England’s length, instead inserting his fingers gently into England’s anal cavity. Moaning, England pushed into France’s hand, still stroking himself. France laughed merrily and shook his head as he played with England’s hardened nipples.
“Monsieur, you are very naughty. I would never have taken you for an Acrophiliac.”
“Sh-shut up, I c-can’t conc-c-centrate!”
“Oui, mon ami.” France pushed in a third finger and England squealed, his pulse racing and his mind clouding over. He felt it, the climax he’d so desperately wanted. France thrust his fingers deeper, England rocked his hips back and forth, moaning something intelligible about Tea and Stamps. The elated nation ran his fingers over the tip of his quivering member and as France’s fingers worked as only a frenchman’s fingers could, England felt himself orgasm.
“Francis! I-”
The flood of warm, sticky liquid squirted out over his fingers and all over the toilet seat. He felt his knees buckle as he sighed blissfully. France supported England as the nation caught his breath and attempted to stand straight.
“Better, Mon Cherie?” France cooed gently as he leaned England against the sink. He smiled at England’s dazed nod and grabbed some tissue, cleaning up both England and the mess that England left all over the wall. He washed his hands, then pulled up, fastened and belted England’s pants, straightened the now contented nation’s shirt and tie, and gently patted his cheek.
“I trust you will forgive me, Mon ami?” France asked softly. England stared at him, confused. What was he talking about?
“Forgive you for what?” he asked curiously.
“Ah, Mon Cherie,” France said with a guilty smile, “Pardon, but there are TWO bathrooms on the plane.”
It was almost a year before all of France’s hair grew back.
Not OP, but ...
anonymous
March 12 2010, 00:30:59 UTC
... best ending ever! I enjoyed the whole fill, but that ending was the icing on the cake. ... I just hope no one asks why I'm laughing crazily. <3
I'll have more intelligent words later, because this had some surprisingly good wording, but for now? This was the best use of alliteration I've ever seen: He rubbed himself red. He stroked his member sticky. He fingered himself frantically.
Re: In Flight Self Service 4/4
anonymous
March 12 2010, 01:37:47 UTC
Oh, Authornon. O__O
I can't decide whether to laugh or moan. They are SO in-character, I love it! Iggy's frustration, France being an insufferable, sneaky, horny, devious bastard. ILU SO MUCH, ANON. (God willing, you shall write more for this meme! ...Please? Pretty please?)
captcha: available Nonzero. That's a pretty accurate description of France "lending a hand", captchizzle.
And stunned reader anon is stunned...
anonymous
April 13 2010, 04:55:57 UTC
By author!anon's jaw-dropping skillz.
Totally second the anon above me: 1) I have no idea whether to snicker or nosebleed all over my keyboard. Mayhap both? and 2) PLEASE WRITE MORE FOR THIS MEME, especially FrUK (PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE *stalks you*). This fill is so ridiculously IC and utterly hawt, and making me fan myself as I lean back, panting, in my seat.
Iggy is so fucking adorable, here; maybe I'm just a sadist, but his tears of frustration somehow made me laugh upped the sensuality in this--Francis, too, was amazing. God, fills like these somehow make me love Dover more than ever--and that's an incredible feat, I'll say ;)
England chewed his lip. Lately those god forsaken meetings had been taking a lot out of him. America was more obnoxious than usual, Italy’s stupid comments about Pasta were pissing him off, Russia’s constant presence was driving him up a wall and France…
He wasn’t going to start on France.
England moaned softly as he continued his “stress-relieving exercise” in the airplane’s cramped bathroom. Although he tried to deny it entirely, for some unknown reason he couldn’t help but find France less annoying than he had been. It hadn’t happened overnight, surely, but something was different. Judging from the many times Francis’ drunken face had appeared in his thoughts the last few “stress-relief sessions” something had definitely changed.
The airplane hit turbulence, rocking violently. England was momentarily thrown off balance, but he braced himself against the wall and continued. He cursed under his breath, then quickly stifled a particularly deep groan. The engines were loud, but not that loud.
It’d been his stupid idea to do it in this bloody contraption anyway. He’d gone and gotten himself slightly aroused in his seat and before he knew it, here he was in this hot, cramped space trying to get off. There was a problem, however; nothing was happening. England was still aroused, but he couldn’t relieve himself in one way or the other.
The other passengers were obviously too wrapped up in their own conversations and debates to notice he was gone, but if one of the nations were to need the bathroom, Iggy would find himself in a very embarrassing predicament.
His face flushed, sweat beading on his forehead and his mouth wide open, England moved his fingers faster in frustration. An image of Francis in a less than dignified position, legs spread wide and waiting ran through his mind. This was bad. He knew it was bad even before he’d decided to go through with the idea. But he couldn’t stop now. It was too late.
Panting, he leaned his head gently against the wall, stroking his length and playing with the tip. He felt warm, and it all felt good, but it wasn’t enough. The harder he forced himself, the less feeling he got and he remained just too aroused to simply stop and forget. He tilted his head back, brows still knitted together in agitation, mouth wide, and rubbed himself between his thighs while one hand stroked his length with the other gently playing around the edge of his anal opening. Pleasure shot through him and he stiffened. He felt the climax; he was almost there. Just a little more…
There was a knock at the door and England choked down a blissful moan. Shit! Everything he worked his arousal up to melted away.
“Just - Just a moment, please!” He called out nervously.
“Yes, yes. Just hurry it along, Arthur,” replied a smooth, but irritated voice. “Some of us need to use the lavatory as well, mon ami.” It was barely audible over the roar of the engines, but England would recognize the voice of that over-confident, pompous, flirty, drunken bastard anywhere. His blood ran cold even as his pulse raced. Why!? Why now? Damn the bloody twat to hell. He probably drank too many wine samplers. Why hadn’t he gone before they’d gotten on this rotten machine?
England’s hand tightened and he tugged more urgently at his member. Come on, dammit! It was never this hard to finish. A few moments came and went, and still he tried. He was almost there, he could feel it, but however much he felt, it didn’t seem to be enough. He was a hot, sweaty, panting mess of a man and with nothing but slightly sticky fingers to show for it.
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“What can you possibly be doing in there, Arthur?” He continued fiddling with the handle. “You’ve been in there for almost an hour! Bowel troubles? Shy bladder?” he snickered cruelly.
England managed to get his pants higher than his ankles, and he stood up, pressing himself against the door. He shuddered as the cold plastic made contact with his burning manhood. Blushing embarrassedly, panting, and still horribly aroused, he carefully opened the door, peering out at France.
“Finally! I thought-” France stopped suddenly, a look of surprise on his face. “Oh, mon ami, what ARE we up to in this small room?”
“I-” England started. He couldn’t say anything else without stuttering, so he swallowed hard instead. France was watching him closely seeming concerned.
“Arthur, you look sick. Do you require moi to assist you?” Worry crept into the other nation’s voice and England felt touched, but at the same time he really didn’t want France to come in.
“N-no! No! I-I just need a-a few moments, Francis!” Panic laced his voice and France raised his eyebrows, but didn’t back away from the bathroom.
“Please!” England hissed in desperation. He was becoming painfully firm again and it was getting to the point where he couldn’t bear to stand much longer. A knowing look crossed France’s face and he grinned.
“Are we being naughty?”
England clenched his eyes shut. “Francis. Please!”
“I see, mon ami,” France chuckled, “But you really must hurry, I have need of the lavatory myself.” He turned around and leaned against the wall beside the door. “Finish it up quickly.”
England let out a sigh of relief as he closed the door. But he found it even harder to relieve himself now that France was right outside. Waiting.
To make matters worse, he found that he couldn’t think of anything BUT Francis. His face, his eyes, that less than dignified position…
England felt himself harden and quickly went with that scenario, ignoring how twisted it made him. He rubbed himself red. He stroked his member sticky. He fingered himself frantically. But he couldn’t get his quivering length any further. The poor nation bit his sleeve and whimpered.
France jiggled the doorknob again and England felt his self control slipping. The engines of the plane were terribly loud, and frankly, they hurt his ears. The bloody contraption rocked far too much for his liking. His week had been horrible. He was tense, annoyed and stressed out much more than was necessary and now…
Tears welled up in England’s eyes. Now he couldn’t even pleasure himself. It was so cruel! It was unfair! His breath came in sharp bursts and he just barely kept himself from sobbing. All of his dignity lost. In a damned airplane restroom, no less!
“Monsieur, pardon, but I am in need of the lavatory. I feel I must remind you. Mon bladder is not made from steel. ” France’s voice came from outside the small room. It had a sense of urgency about it, and Arthur felt guilty about keeping the Frenchman’s obviously abused bladder waiting. The Gods only knew how much the man drank AND how long he held it just to continue drinking his blasted wine.
England wiped his face on his sleeve, but the tears still flowed freely down his cheeks and his forehead was still damp. He couldn’t leave the restroom like this! Not in this state, sweating, flushed and still quite visibly aroused. Then an idea dawned on him.
No. No, he couldn’t possibly…
But he was having a hell of a hard time doing it himself.
England was desperate. And desperate times call for desperate measures. Steeling himself against rejection, the nation rose once again and pressed himself carefully against the door, turning the knob gently and peeking out.
“Fran-Francis, uh-“
“Oh, mon DIEU!” France cried, forcing himself through the door into the tiny compartment. England came slightly away from the door, pushed off balance by France’s abrupt action. “Do just move over! I am tired of waiting, monsieur and -“
England shuddered, suppressing a gasp as France’s gaudy coat brushed against his throbbing manhood. France visibly froze. He eyed the other nation with a peculiar look on his face. England felt himself blush beneath France’s gaze.
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“Pardon moi, but I really do need to relieve myself,” He said shortly, unzipping his pants.
England couldn’t help but glance at the other nation’s vital regions as he pressed his back against the wall. France’s hand gripped firmly but gently around his shaft aiming downward…
England’s chest tightened and he felt a little dizzy. He shouldn’t, oh he knew he shouldn’t; it was unforgivable, but he felt himself trembling at the thought of France’s hand maybe gripping him firmly but gently. Stroking, stroking…
England’s fingers found themselves shaking as he tried to resist the urge to pleasure himself in front of France. It was becoming unbearable and the thoughts didn’t stop entering his mind. So many positions. So many places to touch. The excitement of doing it in this god forsaken piece of flying aluminum.
England pushed against the wall, muscles tense and his eyes clenched shut as he tried not to think. His hand crept ever so slowly toward his wet, quivering length and all he wanted to do was stroke himself into bliss.
Suddenly, he felt delicate, well manicured fingers teasing the base of his member. Startled, England’s eyes shot open and he met France’s amused gaze. The other nation had obviously finished relieving himself and was all too kindly assisting in England’s pursuit of happiness. England involuntarily stiffened; he still didn’t trust Francis any farther than he could throw the bastard. And due to height and weight differences, that wasn’t very far.
“Oh, non non non… This will not do, Iggy,” France purred, a wicked smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “Monsieur is much too tense…” He pressed in closer and England gasped as France took hold of his shaft and gently stroked. But the wine-freak’s hand never went to the tip and he didn’t apply any more pressure, nor did he even attempt to move any faster.
One of England’s arms wrapped around France’s neck for support, the other hand lie on top of France’s, trying to force a tighter grip. His hands were surprisingly strong and did not buckle despite England’s many attempts.
Why won’t he go any faster? Why doesn’t he touch the rest? Why won’t he press more firmly?
England’s breath started to come faster and he felt the tears of frustration welling up in his eyes again. He was horny as all hell and this wine-drinking bastard was just going to - to play cock-tease with him!
He whimpered as a surge of pleasure caused his back to arch.
France chuckled as England’s hips thrust awkwardly. “Ah, you are rushing, Arthur. You must tell me what the problem is first, mon ami.”
England grit his teeth. The froggy bastard was doing this on purpose. Like hell he was going to tell Francis what was wrong! He squirmed, but France only laughed.
“Mon, ami! S'il vous plait! Please, you must tell me.”
“I- I don’t…I have…“ England panted, far too focused on his erect member to think very clearly. “I can’t…can’t…come. I keep trying and trying, but…I can’t!” His voice became more desperate and he choked back the lump in his throat. “No matter h-how-how hard I try I d-don’t get anything!” Tears ran down his face and he stared up at France.
Who decided this was the appropriate moment to burst out laughing.
Disgusted, England shoved him out of the way and moved over to the toilet. He should never have expected anything from that froggy, wine-drinking bastard in the first place. He knew France was just messing with him. He bit back a frustrated cry and clenched his eyes shut.
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Warm, smooth skin caressed his inner thigh and England felt his knees weaken. France pressed against the man’s back, tickling his neck with his soft, hot breath. England shivered and felt his length throb as France ran his tongue around his ear.
The nation let out a contented grunt and France slid his hand down England’s stomach, eventually reaching England’s fingers. He ran his hand up to the tip of England’s member and gently kneaded it between his middle and index fingers and his thumb.
Ecstasy flooded over England and he felt his hips move involuntarily. France removed his hand from England’s length, instead inserting his fingers gently into England’s anal cavity. Moaning, England pushed into France’s hand, still stroking himself. France laughed merrily and shook his head as he played with England’s hardened nipples.
“Monsieur, you are very naughty. I would never have taken you for an Acrophiliac.”
“Sh-shut up, I c-can’t conc-c-centrate!”
“Oui, mon ami.” France pushed in a third finger and England squealed, his pulse racing and his mind clouding over. He felt it, the climax he’d so desperately wanted. France thrust his fingers deeper, England rocked his hips back and forth, moaning something intelligible about Tea and Stamps.
The elated nation ran his fingers over the tip of his quivering member and as France’s fingers worked as only a frenchman’s fingers could, England felt himself orgasm.
“Francis! I-”
The flood of warm, sticky liquid squirted out over his fingers and all over the toilet seat. He felt his knees buckle as he sighed blissfully. France supported England as the nation caught his breath and attempted to stand straight.
“Better, Mon Cherie?” France cooed gently as he leaned England against the sink. He smiled at England’s dazed nod and grabbed some tissue, cleaning up both England and the mess that England left all over the wall. He washed his hands, then pulled up, fastened and belted England’s pants, straightened the now contented nation’s shirt and tie, and gently patted his cheek.
“I trust you will forgive me, Mon ami?” France asked softly. England stared at him, confused. What was he talking about?
“Forgive you for what?” he asked curiously.
“Ah, Mon Cherie,” France said with a guilty smile, “Pardon, but there are TWO bathrooms on the plane.”
It was almost a year before all of France’s hair grew back.
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Oh Anon, you are no where near a N00b. I loved this fill to bits! Poor Arthur just can't get a day off can he? XD
And that last liner killed me XD *adds to memories*
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I'll have more intelligent words later, because this had some surprisingly good wording, but for now? This was the best use of alliteration I've ever seen: He rubbed himself red. He stroked his member sticky. He fingered himself frantically.
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I can't decide whether to laugh or moan. They are SO in-character, I love it! Iggy's frustration, France being an insufferable, sneaky, horny, devious bastard. ILU SO MUCH, ANON. (God willing, you shall write more for this meme! ...Please? Pretty please?)
captcha: available Nonzero. That's a pretty accurate description of France "lending a hand", captchizzle.
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She is glad that it was enjoyed! Thank you for the kind comments. :)
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Totally second the anon above me: 1) I have no idea whether to snicker or nosebleed all over my keyboard. Mayhap both? and 2) PLEASE WRITE MORE FOR THIS MEME, especially FrUK (PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE *stalks you*). This fill is so ridiculously IC and utterly hawt, and making me fan myself as I lean back, panting, in my seat.
Iggy is so fucking adorable, here; maybe I'm just a sadist, but his tears of frustration somehow made me laugh upped the sensuality in this--Francis, too, was amazing. God, fills like these somehow make me love Dover more than ever--and that's an incredible feat, I'll say ;)
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