[Ficbit] Thursday Evening
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Hi, I spent nine hours in a car today. It sucked. So I wrote nations getting laid. It's short as hell, but in my defense, I kept having to stop to pump gas. Also I am typing this on a phone.
Title: "Thursday Evening"
Author: wizzard890
Characters or Pairings: France/Russia.
Summary: Seriously guys, it's just foodplay. And not-quite-sex. Because I dig that, I guess.
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Russia's eyes have been closed for the better part of an hour; it is his own choice. He is not blindfolded, and he does not need to be. Sheets cool and shift beneath him, rippling between the mattress and the small of his back. He lies with arms and thighs spread, pricked with a fine sheen of sweat.
France laps it from the turn of Russia's knee, fits long, light fingers into the space beneath Russia's lowest rib. Strokes him there, with the very tips. "You are warming, cher," he murmurs.
Russia's muscles hitch against the soft swipe of France's mouth. "Only to you," he rumbles, and watches the dark behind his eyelids. He is hard, though not recently so; long enough for the ache of it to call an answering throb up across his skin, and break his breath whenever France's hand curls loose around him. This last is not happening as often as he'd like.
He skims his hips upwards, feels his cock brush France's cheek where the other nation had bent to nuzzle him.
"You are impatient this evening, Russie. It is not like you."
Russia wets his lips. They are still damp with wine, the same burgundy which splattered and dried in tiny droplets across Russia's chest when France had tipped the glass a bit too quickly against his mouth. France does not spill often, in these games, but when he does, he tidies with his tongue. He hasn't yet gotten around to it. Russia thinks the stains must look very dark against his skin. "We have been here for a long time," he says, and after a moment of searching, threads his fingers into France's hair.
"Mm." France purrs, half agreement, half pleasure, and busses his head against Russia's hand. Kisses his forearm. "I suppose I should get on with it, then."
"If you like." Pillows part and huff around Russia as he settles deeper, arches his spine, his arms, his neck, still wrapped round with his scarf. Listens to cars and voices hum on the street outside the open window. Waits as France shifts against him--whets himself so briefly on the heavy turn of Russia's hip.
Russia smells chocolate before he tastes it, and he parts his lips, takes in the piece with tongue and teeth, suckling gently on France's fingers before the sugar can begin to dissolve. He hooks a leg around the other nation's calf, draws him in.
France chuckles, nuzzles his thumb against the corner of Russia's mouth. The sound widens to a moan when Russia catches it, nips, and takes it as deeply as he can. "You are--ah--insatiable, darling--"
France makes no attempt to free himself. And so Russia does not let him go.
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Hi, I spent nine hours in a car today. It sucked. So I wrote nations getting laid. It's short as hell, but in my defense, I kept having to stop to pump gas. Also I am typing this on a phone.
Title: "Thursday Evening"
Author: wizzard890
Characters or Pairings: France/Russia.
Summary: Seriously guys, it's just foodplay. And not-quite-sex. Because I dig that, I guess.
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Russia's eyes have been closed for the better part of an hour; it is his own choice. He is not blindfolded, and he does not need to be. Sheets cool and shift beneath him, rippling between the mattress and the small of his back. He lies with arms and thighs spread, pricked with a fine sheen of sweat.
France laps it from the turn of Russia's knee, fits long, light fingers into the space beneath Russia's lowest rib. Strokes him there, with the very tips. "You are warming, cher," he murmurs.
Russia's muscles hitch against the soft swipe of France's mouth. "Only to you," he rumbles, and watches the dark behind his eyelids. He is hard, though not recently so; long enough for the ache of it to call an answering throb up across his skin, and break his breath whenever France's hand curls loose around him. This last is not happening as often as he'd like.
He skims his hips upwards, feels his cock brush France's cheek where the other nation had bent to nuzzle him.
"You are impatient this evening, Russie. It is not like you."
Russia wets his lips. They are still damp with wine, the same burgundy which splattered and dried in tiny droplets across Russia's chest when France had tipped the glass a bit too quickly against his mouth. France does not spill often, in these games, but when he does, he tidies with his tongue. He hasn't yet gotten around to it. Russia thinks the stains must look very dark against his skin. "We have been here for a long time," he says, and after a moment of searching, threads his fingers into France's hair.
"Mm." France purrs, half agreement, half pleasure, and busses his head against Russia's hand. Kisses his forearm. "I suppose I should get on with it, then."
"If you like." Pillows part and huff around Russia as he settles deeper, arches his spine, his arms, his neck, still wrapped round with his scarf. Listens to cars and voices hum on the street outside the open window. Waits as France shifts against him--whets himself so briefly on the heavy turn of Russia's hip.
Russia smells chocolate before he tastes it, and he parts his lips, takes in the piece with tongue and teeth, suckling gently on France's fingers before the sugar can begin to dissolve. He hooks a leg around the other nation's calf, draws him in.
France chuckles, nuzzles his thumb against the corner of Russia's mouth. The sound widens to a moan when Russia catches it, nips, and takes it as deeply as he can. "You are--ah--insatiable, darling--"
France makes no attempt to free himself. And so Russia does not let him go.
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