Re: Fill: The Little Things (Part 2/?)
anonymous
March 12 2010, 03:58:28 UTC
England was one of the few nations who hadn’t sprung for a laptop as note-taking material of choice. The endless monotony of clicking keys seemed much too impersonal, too cold, even if it proved faster than pen-and-paper. He didn’t even use shorthand. No, England preferred the fountain pen. There was something rather sensual about the scratch of the nib, the ink curling and winding across the paper - good paper, too, not that cheap, sawdusty stuff America used.
He saw the words march across the paper in neat rows as someone (possibly Austria?) gave a presentation on budget management. Clean lines under lovely subheadings and bullet-points, with nary a mark to besmirch them. Absently he wondered about what his plans were for after the meeting. America wanted to go for beers, of course, but -
Someone was touching his paper.
England jolted out of his brief reverie and stared at the offending hand. Someone was drawing little birds on his beautiful notes.
In ink. Cheap, messy ballpoint ink.
Slowly, so as not to arouse suspicion, England twisted his head round to see the perpetrator of this heinous deed. Said perpetrator glanced up at him with bright red eyes and smirked.
England had half a mind to tell Germany off for bringing his brother (who wasn’t technically a nation anymore) to these meetings. He glared at Prussia, trying his damnedest to convey that if he didn’t stop doodling on England’s notes right now things were going to be very, very bad.
Prussia grinned. And he kept drawing.
Except instead of little birds he started drawing…phalluses.
Two circles and a long loop.
Lots of them.
All over England’s paper.
England tried not to scream.
Prussia, meanwhile, had started to draw a face on one of the bigger phalluses (which made England’s mind boggle), a face with half-moon shaped eyes and a wide, gaping smirk. Apparently, though, once he’d finished the face (and written ‘AWESOME’ underneath it. Did he know no other words?) he could no longer improve on such a masterpiece, and thus retreated.
England was too shocked at the vandalism to hear the metallic “clunk” and decidedly fleshy “crack” that followed. Nor did he hear the horrified Prussia screaming “OH MY GOD YOU BROKE MY GODDAMNED FINGERS YOU SON OF A BITCH” and the resulting chaos.
He simply began to transfer what remained of his notes to a clean sheet of paper, and resolved to burn the tainted one after the meeting.
Re: Fill: The Little Things (Part 3/?)
anonymous
March 12 2010, 04:37:53 UTC
England did, in fact, decide to take America up on his offer of beers. The meeting had waxed long (a given, since Spain and Greece teamed up to present, and North Italy kept asking the most asinine questions), and he thought he deserved something much stronger than beer.
So when America got them together to meet at a nearby bar, England was not in the mood for anything other than quiet and copious amounts of alcohol. France protested America’s order of onion rings (as did Canada, quietly), but England wished that the goddamned Frog would just shut up and stuff his mouth with the fried things.
They weren’t bad, as a matter of fact. England was sure he could make better ones, but they weren’t bad.
He had no idea how France was sitting there all smug with a bottle of wine that looked more expensive than all of England’s clothing put together, and looking down while America put away Budweisers and Canada nursed a Molson’s. England had his scotch, though, and that made everything seem a bit brighter.
And the television was showing a football game. Oh, it was America’s football, not real football, but if he squinted just so and ate another onion ring he could pretend.
England didn’t remember refilling his scotch, but the level didn’t seem to get any lower. Maybe it was magic, or some higher being finally cutting him a break, realizing that England had to put up with entirely too much shit on a daily basis. He wasn’t complaining.
Until France started talking to him, started leaning in, putting a casual hand on England’s hip.
The room suddenly got very, very cold.
And a huge, ominous shadow appeared behind France’s back.
It blocked the football game. England was a bit saddened by that.
France looked up and blanched. “G-good evening, Russia,” he managed.
The larger nation smiled the way animals smile - as a threat. Full of teeth. He let his pipe clunk down on the back of the booth. “France, may I speak with you for a moment?”
Not having much of a choice, France got up.
He came back five minutes later, dead white and shaking - and he sat on the opposite side of the booth from England.
England felt a tap on his shoulder, gazed up blearily. Worried violet eyes. “Are you all right?”
“M-myeah,” England said, trying to see the football game. “Fine.”
“I think you have had enough to drink,” Russia said. England missed the glare he leveled at France and America, who were cowering behind the remains of the onion rings.
“I will walk you back to your room.” England nodded, half-conscious, and felt strong hands lifting him by the shoulders, out of the booth and away from the noise.
Random!anon has now spammed all three parts with comments :D
anonymous
March 12 2010, 17:42:37 UTC
England did, in fact, decide to take America up on his offer of beers.
Er, was there any doubt in anyone's mind that England would go for drinks? ^_^;
England wished that the goddamned Frog would just shut up and stuff his mouth with the fried things.
Oh England, he's France; he'd probably get off on it somehow!
England didn’t remember refilling his scotch, but the level didn’t seem to get any lower. Maybe it was magic, or some higher being finally cutting him a break, realizing that England had to put up with entirely too much shit on a daily basis. He wasn’t complaining.
... he must be really drunk for his mental "u gonna get raeped" alarm not to be going off. Then again, England with alcohol within arm's length seems to be synonymous with 'really drunk'. Especially when France can pour like a freaking ninja. :O
XD I like how France put off talking to England until he was already pissed. Lol, France, you know your frienemy well!
The larger nation smiled the way animals smile - as a threat. Full of teeth. This made me twitch, anon! ^_^; I like the description there.
“I will walk you back to your room.” England nodded, half-conscious, and felt strong hands lifting him by the shoulders, out of the booth and away from the noise.
I'm kind of surprised America and Canada just let Russia carry England off. Then again ... it is Russia! And who wants to carry a probably-about-to-be-bitching!England anywhere. :O
Authornon replies to Randomanon
anonymous
March 12 2010, 19:22:21 UTC
Comments are LOVELY. <3
Now, in regards to some of the things you brought up: England's been really, really freaking traumatized (DICKS ON MY PAPERRRRR), it's been a LONG day, and America's buying. Also, it's known that when you're watching or reading something you tend to lose focus on what you're doing and tend to eat/drink more, so my mental picture of this whole thing is England's totally zoned out/watching stupid American football, France is ninja!pouring without England really noticing, and hey, it's alcohol, weehee!
I don't think he's figured out that he's goan get raep'd - I don't think it'd even crossed his mind at this point. Besides, he's this close to being in sad-drunk-England territory. Just a smidgen from it. I realize maybe that's a bit OOC...D: OTL I'm so sorry!
Now, about terrifying Russia - they're NOT just going to let him carry him off. France is, though - Russia probably threatened to do awful, nasty things to his vital regions, possibly involving Belarus's knife collection, a pack of peanuts, and Gilbird. Canada, well - Canada's a little freaked out by Russia and he's too polite to make a scene. America, though...
Re: Fill: The Little Things (Part 4/?)
anonymous
March 12 2010, 23:12:31 UTC
Russia was kind enough to unlock the door for him - England’s manual dexterity wasn’t at its best after God knows how many glasses of scotch. Woozy, he half-walked, half-stumbled into the room, fell to the couch, closed his eyes.
He heard a tap running in the kitchen - Russia must’ve come in, too - and then there was a glass of cold water right there, right by his hand. England drank.
“You should sleep,” Russia said, in a very different tone of voice than the one he’d used in the bar. England nodded - sleep sounded good. Lovely. Where was Russia, anyway? He couldn’t pinpoint the voice -
Ah. Russia was sitting next to him on the couch. That meant the large, comfortable pillow he was half-resting his head against was Russia’s shoulder.
Russia turned all of a sudden. England raised his head a bit, saw that the door had swung open and for some reason America was there. He’d thought America was at the bar with France and Canada.
“What the hell is this?” America shouted, and England winced. Too loud.
Russia got up, leaving England to do a sort of faceplant into the sofa cushions. “England needs to sleep.”
The wonderfully soft cushions prevented England from hearing America’s next remark, but he thought he could make out Russia saying something like “it’s none of your business.”
“Of course it’s my goddamned business!” America snarled. England couldn’t see him, but he imagined America was walking forward, planting a finger on Russia’s chest. Aggressive. “I mean, England’s my friend, right? I don’t want you…”
England muffled the conversation by grabbing a cushion and jamming it over his head. He caught some other bits - “special” and “not your property” and…
He twisted his head towards them, peering out the gap between the cushions. Both countries had gone silent - and this, he thought, meant Russia had won. America always needed loudness and lights and overt threats, but Russia -
Russia could threaten people by simply sitting next to them.
“Let me make this clear,” Russia said, and the words came out as a hiss, a breath - no trace of childishness here. He towered over America, leaned in. “You cannot tell me what I can and cannot do.”
America opened his mouth to say something - probably a challenge of some sort - but Russia cut him off.
“You have invaded someone else’s privacy. Entering uninvited. The proper thing to do is apologize…and leave.”
Russia’s voice had gone dangerously soft. America thought better of his remarks, swallowed hard, and shot a glance at England that, later on, England couldn’t quite understand.
And Russia closed the door as America walked out. Locked it behind him. -- A/N: I feel bad for America...I don't hate him, really! D: Honestly, I hate beating him up in fic, and I hate it if this part sounded like I was being a US/UK basher (because I'm NOT). DX GAH this was hard and I'm still not so very happy...but I think this was really the only way the story needed to go.
Re: Fill: The Little Things (Part 4/?)
anonymous
March 12 2010, 23:56:38 UTC
That's awesome! it didn't sound USUk basher to me at all, because America is understandably worried, Russia doesn't have the straightest record for stability, and Al's also arrogant and loud and prone to make his will by force sometimes. Russia as well. I loved the alpha male showdown, lol! I don't think I've ever read America and Russia competing for England's attentions. And Russia's being so cute too ^^ England's atittude of complete disinterest in his surroundings also amuses me greatlyXD
Re: Fill: The Little Things (Part 5/?)
anonymous
March 13 2010, 03:50:00 UTC
Russia exhaled and moved back to the couch. “I am sorry for that,” he murmured.
England shook his head, which still felt fuzzy. “Not your fault.” He sat up slowly, smiled a bit. “It was rather loud, though.”
The larger nation nodded. His fingers moved to play with the end of his scarf. “I should leave.”
“No!”
England surprised himself with the vehemence of the statement. Probably the scotch talking. “No,” he repeated, and Russia’s eyes widened a hair. “If I know America, he’s waiting down the hall, ready to barge in again when he sees you leave.” Russia nodded.
“Stay,” England said. He shivered.
“You are cold,” Russia stated. “You should get in bed. With blankets.” England snorted. “I’m not a child.” To his chagrin, the phrase came out sounding petulant and whiny. Russia looked amused.
Before he knew it, England had a large mass of fabric shoved onto his shoulders. “I don’t need your coat, Russia,” he grumbled, trying to navigate his way out of the thing. (Who on earth made coats this big?)
Without his coat, Russia looked less…monolithic. Softer. England couldn’t say whether he liked the change. “Help me with this thing, will you?” he asked.
Russia nodded and arranged the coat so it draped over England’s shoulders like a blanket. Or one of those ridiculous things America was always talking about, the blanket-robe thing with sleeves - he couldn't remember the name. England assumed he looked like a drowned rat trying to navigate its way out of a paper bag.
He heard Russia murmuring something. “What’s that?”
“Cute.”
England spluttered, feeling his cheeks turn bright red. Russia smiled, moved a hand to England’s shoulder. Pulled him close.
And England was quite certain that he didn’t feel cold anymore.
-- A/N - Crack to Serious to Fluff to...oh god too much mood whiplash. DX
Re: Fill: The Little Things (Part 6/?)
anonymous
March 13 2010, 16:19:41 UTC
Soft lamplight and alcohol made the world hazy, but what England couldn’t see, he could feel. Russia’s other hand had drifted to his hair, absently petting him as if he was some sort of cat. He could hear Russia’s heartbeat, too - slow, thrumming through his head like sound over water. England closed his eyes and let himself float away on the ripples.
Looking back, it was the scotch that did it. England only lowered his guard after several drinks, and even then only very special circumstances.
He craned his head back to look at Russia and gave him a lopsided smile. Russia’s hand crept down, down to England’s cheek. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, even though Russia’s hands were cold.
Part of England’s mind screamed at him to think about what he was doing - that this was Russia, the giant, capable of squishing him like a flea if he so chose.
But the majority of England’s alcohol-addled brain thought that Russia was quiet, and, well, not safe, but comfortable, and sort of…compelling.
So he decided to turn his lips to Russia’s palm, leaving a ghost of something that resembled a kiss on the pad of his thumb.
“You’ve had too much to drink,” Russia murmured. England resisted saying “you’re one to talk,” changed the words into the less offensive “I don’t care.”
The larger nation blinked, wide lips curving into a smile - not scary, like earlier, but almost sheepish, embarrassed. “So I see.”
England’s lips brushed the inside of Russia’s wrist, and he heard the other man hiss out a breath between his teeth. He licked a line up Russia’s palm all the way to the tip of his index finger, kissed the very top of it. Felt Russia’s other hand tighten on his shoulder as England suckled just the tip, just a taste.
The hands left his mouth and shoulder, and England felt both cup his face as Russia’s cool, dry lips descended on his.
He saw the words march across the paper in neat rows as someone (possibly Austria?) gave a presentation on budget management. Clean lines under lovely subheadings and bullet-points, with nary a mark to besmirch them. Absently he wondered about what his plans were for after the meeting. America wanted to go for beers, of course, but -
Someone was touching his paper.
England jolted out of his brief reverie and stared at the offending hand. Someone was drawing little birds on his beautiful notes.
In ink. Cheap, messy ballpoint ink.
Slowly, so as not to arouse suspicion, England twisted his head round to see the perpetrator of this heinous deed. Said perpetrator glanced up at him with bright red eyes and smirked.
England had half a mind to tell Germany off for bringing his brother (who wasn’t technically a nation anymore) to these meetings. He glared at Prussia, trying his damnedest to convey that if he didn’t stop doodling on England’s notes right now things were going to be very, very bad.
Prussia grinned. And he kept drawing.
Except instead of little birds he started drawing…phalluses.
Two circles and a long loop.
Lots of them.
All over England’s paper.
England tried not to scream.
Prussia, meanwhile, had started to draw a face on one of the bigger phalluses (which made England’s mind boggle), a face with half-moon shaped eyes and a wide, gaping smirk. Apparently, though, once he’d finished the face (and written ‘AWESOME’ underneath it. Did he know no other words?) he could no longer improve on such a masterpiece, and thus retreated.
England was too shocked at the vandalism to hear the metallic “clunk” and decidedly fleshy “crack” that followed. Nor did he hear the horrified Prussia screaming “OH MY GOD YOU BROKE MY GODDAMNED FINGERS YOU SON OF A BITCH” and the resulting chaos.
He simply began to transfer what remained of his notes to a clean sheet of paper, and resolved to burn the tainted one after the meeting.
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c====8D Awesome
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So when America got them together to meet at a nearby bar, England was not in the mood for anything other than quiet and copious amounts of alcohol. France protested America’s order of onion rings (as did Canada, quietly), but England wished that the goddamned Frog would just shut up and stuff his mouth with the fried things.
They weren’t bad, as a matter of fact. England was sure he could make better ones, but they weren’t bad.
He had no idea how France was sitting there all smug with a bottle of wine that looked more expensive than all of England’s clothing put together, and looking down while America put away Budweisers and Canada nursed a Molson’s. England had his scotch, though, and that made everything seem a bit brighter.
And the television was showing a football game. Oh, it was America’s football, not real football, but if he squinted just so and ate another onion ring he could pretend.
England didn’t remember refilling his scotch, but the level didn’t seem to get any lower. Maybe it was magic, or some higher being finally cutting him a break, realizing that England had to put up with entirely too much shit on a daily basis. He wasn’t complaining.
Until France started talking to him, started leaning in, putting a casual hand on England’s hip.
The room suddenly got very, very cold.
And a huge, ominous shadow appeared behind France’s back.
It blocked the football game. England was a bit saddened by that.
France looked up and blanched. “G-good evening, Russia,” he managed.
The larger nation smiled the way animals smile - as a threat. Full of teeth. He let his pipe clunk down on the back of the booth. “France, may I speak with you for a moment?”
Not having much of a choice, France got up.
He came back five minutes later, dead white and shaking - and he sat on the opposite side of the booth from England.
England felt a tap on his shoulder, gazed up blearily. Worried violet eyes. “Are you all right?”
“M-myeah,” England said, trying to see the football game. “Fine.”
“I think you have had enough to drink,” Russia said. England missed the glare he leveled at France and America, who were cowering behind the
remains of the onion rings.
“I will walk you back to your room.” England nodded, half-conscious, and felt strong hands lifting him by the shoulders, out of the booth and away from the noise.
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Er, was there any doubt in anyone's mind that England would go for drinks? ^_^;
England wished that the goddamned Frog would just shut up and stuff his mouth with the fried things.
Oh England, he's France; he'd probably get off on it somehow!
England didn’t remember refilling his scotch, but the level didn’t seem to get any lower. Maybe it was magic, or some higher being finally cutting him a break, realizing that England had to put up with entirely too much shit on a daily basis. He wasn’t complaining.
... he must be really drunk for his mental "u gonna get raeped" alarm not to be going off. Then again, England with alcohol within arm's length seems to be synonymous with 'really drunk'. Especially when France can pour like a freaking ninja. :O
XD I like how France put off talking to England until he was already pissed. Lol, France, you know your frienemy well!
The larger nation smiled the way animals smile - as a threat. Full of teeth. This made me twitch, anon! ^_^; I like the description there.
“I will walk you back to your room.” England nodded, half-conscious, and felt strong hands lifting him by the shoulders, out of the booth and away from the noise.
I'm kind of surprised America and Canada just let Russia carry England off. Then again ... it is Russia! And who wants to carry a probably-about-to-be-bitching!England anywhere. :O
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Now, in regards to some of the things you brought up:
England's been really, really freaking traumatized (DICKS ON MY PAPERRRRR), it's been a LONG day, and America's buying. Also, it's known that when you're watching or reading something you tend to lose focus on what you're doing and tend to eat/drink more, so my mental picture of this whole thing is England's totally zoned out/watching stupid American football, France is ninja!pouring without England really noticing, and hey, it's alcohol, weehee!
I don't think he's figured out that he's goan get raep'd - I don't think it'd even crossed his mind at this point. Besides, he's this close to being in sad-drunk-England territory. Just a smidgen from it. I realize maybe that's a bit OOC...D: OTL I'm so sorry!
Now, about terrifying Russia - they're NOT just going to let him carry him off. France is, though - Russia probably threatened to do awful, nasty things to his vital regions, possibly involving Belarus's knife collection, a pack of peanuts, and Gilbird. Canada, well - Canada's a little freaked out by Russia and he's too polite to make a scene. America, though...
*evil grin*
You'll just have to wait and see, Randomanon!
(And thanks SO MUCH for the comments!)
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He heard a tap running in the kitchen - Russia must’ve come in, too - and then there was a glass of cold water right there, right by his hand. England drank.
“You should sleep,” Russia said, in a very different tone of voice than the one he’d used in the bar. England nodded - sleep sounded good. Lovely. Where was Russia, anyway? He couldn’t pinpoint the voice -
Ah. Russia was sitting next to him on the couch. That meant the large, comfortable pillow he was half-resting his head against was Russia’s shoulder.
Russia turned all of a sudden. England raised his head a bit, saw that the door had swung open and for some reason America was there. He’d thought America was at the bar with France and Canada.
“What the hell is this?” America shouted, and England winced. Too loud.
Russia got up, leaving England to do a sort of faceplant into the sofa cushions. “England needs to sleep.”
The wonderfully soft cushions prevented England from hearing America’s
next remark, but he thought he could make out Russia saying something like “it’s none of your business.”
“Of course it’s my goddamned business!” America snarled. England couldn’t see him, but he imagined America was walking forward, planting a finger on Russia’s chest. Aggressive. “I mean, England’s my friend, right? I don’t want you…”
England muffled the conversation by grabbing a cushion and jamming it over his head. He caught some other bits - “special” and “not your property” and…
He twisted his head towards them, peering out the gap between the cushions. Both countries had gone silent - and this, he thought, meant Russia had won. America always needed loudness and lights and overt threats, but Russia -
Russia could threaten people by simply sitting next to them.
“Let me make this clear,” Russia said, and the words came out as a hiss, a breath - no trace of childishness here. He towered over America, leaned in. “You cannot tell me what I can and cannot do.”
America opened his mouth to say something - probably a challenge of some sort - but Russia cut him off.
“You have invaded someone else’s privacy. Entering uninvited. The proper thing to do is apologize…and leave.”
Russia’s voice had gone dangerously soft. America thought better of his remarks, swallowed hard, and shot a glance at England that, later on, England couldn’t quite understand.
And Russia closed the door as America walked out. Locked it behind him.
--
A/N: I feel bad for America...I don't hate him, really! D: Honestly, I hate beating him up in fic, and I hate it if this part sounded like I was being a US/UK basher (because I'm NOT). DX GAH this was hard and I'm still not so very happy...but I think this was really the only way the story needed to go.
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England's atittude of complete disinterest in his surroundings also amuses me greatlyXD
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I'm sorry for my incoherence, but I love this, in all it's cracky goodness.
...will there be smutty tiems?
(oh don't worry, you don't seem like a US/UK basher to me)
/shot
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ILU.
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England shook his head, which still felt fuzzy. “Not your fault.” He sat up slowly, smiled a bit. “It was rather loud, though.”
The larger nation nodded. His fingers moved to play with the end of his scarf. “I should leave.”
“No!”
England surprised himself with the vehemence of the statement. Probably the scotch talking. “No,” he repeated, and Russia’s eyes widened a hair. “If I know America, he’s waiting down the hall, ready to barge in again when he sees you leave.”
Russia nodded.
“Stay,” England said. He shivered.
“You are cold,” Russia stated. “You should get in bed. With blankets.”
England snorted. “I’m not a child.” To his chagrin, the phrase came out sounding petulant and whiny. Russia looked amused.
Before he knew it, England had a large mass of fabric shoved onto his shoulders. “I don’t need your coat, Russia,” he grumbled, trying to navigate his way out of the thing. (Who on earth made coats this big?)
Without his coat, Russia looked less…monolithic. Softer. England couldn’t say whether he liked the change. “Help me with this thing, will you?” he asked.
Russia nodded and arranged the coat so it draped over England’s shoulders like a blanket. Or one of those ridiculous things America was always talking about, the blanket-robe thing with sleeves - he couldn't remember the name. England assumed he looked like a drowned rat trying to navigate its way out of a paper bag.
He heard Russia murmuring something. “What’s that?”
“Cute.”
England spluttered, feeling his cheeks turn bright red. Russia smiled, moved a hand to England’s shoulder. Pulled him close.
And England was quite certain that he didn’t feel cold anymore.
--
A/N - Crack to Serious to Fluff to...oh god too much mood whiplash. DX
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There must be fanart somewhere, please.
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Looking back, it was the scotch that did it. England only lowered his guard after several drinks, and even then only very special circumstances.
He craned his head back to look at Russia and gave him a lopsided smile. Russia’s hand crept down, down to England’s cheek. He closed his eyes and leaned into the touch, even though Russia’s hands were cold.
Part of England’s mind screamed at him to think about what he was doing - that this was Russia, the giant, capable of squishing him like a flea if he so chose.
But the majority of England’s alcohol-addled brain thought that Russia was quiet, and, well, not safe, but comfortable, and sort of…compelling.
So he decided to turn his lips to Russia’s palm, leaving a ghost of something that resembled a kiss on the pad of his thumb.
“You’ve had too much to drink,” Russia murmured. England resisted saying “you’re one to talk,” changed the words into the less offensive “I don’t care.”
The larger nation blinked, wide lips curving into a smile - not scary, like earlier, but almost sheepish, embarrassed. “So I see.”
England’s lips brushed the inside of Russia’s wrist, and he heard the other man hiss out a breath between his teeth. He licked a line up Russia’s palm all the way to the tip of his index finger, kissed the very top of it. Felt Russia’s other hand tighten on his shoulder as England suckled just the tip, just a taste.
The hands left his mouth and shoulder, and England felt both cup his face as Russia’s cool, dry lips descended on his.
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