Diplomatic Relations (2/2)
anonymous
March 15 2009, 05:02:14 UTC
Thursday night, and France is panting heavily, hanging over Russia in the top suite of the Hotel Meurice. “We could have been doing this the whole time, you know,” he gasps, and Russia leans up and sinks his teeth into his shoulder.
“Maybe.” The other Nation’s growl reverberates against his neck. “But where would have been the fun in that?”
France laughs into Russia’s mouth, grinds their hips together. “Tell me that’s not a serious question.”
Russia’s only response is an impatient thrust up against the hand that France is drawing slowly, teasingly, down his belly. They struggle briefly, and Russia makes an attempt to flip their positions, his rumbling laugh the only sign he’s not in earnest. France eventually subdues him with a well-positioned leg between his thighs.
“Careful, mon chere,” he purrs, and his tongue leaves a slick trail across Russia’s collarbone. “My country, my city, my rules.”
‘Then you must visit Russia sometime soon.”
France chokes as fingernails rake down his back. “Oui.”
+
A crisp Friday morning. France has forgotten how grabby Russia is when he sleeps, but settles easily into the arm wrapped around his middle. He runs his fingers through thick, slightly tangled hair.
This is how international politics are supposed to go.
“Maybe.” The other Nation’s growl reverberates against his neck. “But where would have been the fun in that?”
France laughs into Russia’s mouth, grinds their hips together. “Tell me that’s not a serious question.”
Russia’s only response is an impatient thrust up against the hand that France is drawing slowly, teasingly, down his belly. They struggle briefly, and Russia makes an attempt to flip their positions, his rumbling laugh the only sign he’s not in earnest. France eventually subdues him with a well-positioned leg between his thighs.
“Careful, mon chere,” he purrs, and his tongue leaves a slick trail across Russia’s collarbone. “My country, my city, my rules.”
‘Then you must visit Russia sometime soon.”
France chokes as fingernails rake down his back. “Oui.”
+
A crisp Friday morning. France has forgotten how grabby Russia is when he sleeps, but settles easily into the arm wrapped around his middle. He runs his fingers through thick, slightly tangled hair.
This is how international politics are supposed to go.
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That was fantastic.
Thank you~
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