Diplomatic Relations (1/2)
anonymous
March 15 2009, 04:59:39 UTC
“So, mon chere,” France waves a hand, gestures expansively at the building before them, “have you revised your opinion? Can you acknowledge great architecture when you see it?”
Russia crosses his arms. “As far as I know, I’ve never lacked this ability.” His chest rises and falls as he takes in the spring air, and France eyes the movement of his sweater appreciatively.
“Ah, but you have. You can’t have forgotten the first time I took you here?” France shoots Russia an arch look, lets his fingers trail across his sleeve. “I recall something about ‘the underside of a sink’.”
The Beaubourg glows gently against the night sky, sharp and angular, looking for all the world like a gutted skyscraper. Russia’s head is craned back, exposing the long line of his throat, and France leans in to nuzzle the side of his neck. “Tu es beau...But this dammed scarf,” he tugs the offending article down, presses his lips to the revealed line of skin. “It gets in the way
( ... )
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. “OuiA crisp Friday morning. France has
( ... )
In that order.
Anon has heard that Russia and France have good relations.
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Russia crosses his arms. “As far as I know, I’ve never lacked this ability.” His chest rises and falls as he takes in the spring air, and France eyes the movement of his sweater appreciatively.
“Ah, but you have. You can’t have forgotten the first time I took you here?” France shoots Russia an arch look, lets his fingers trail across his sleeve. “I recall something about ‘the underside of a sink’.”
The Beaubourg glows gently against the night sky, sharp and angular, looking for all the world like a gutted skyscraper. Russia’s head is craned back, exposing the long line of his throat, and France leans in to nuzzle the side of his neck. “Tu es beau...But this dammed scarf,” he tugs the offending article down, presses his lips to the revealed line of skin. “It gets in the way ( ... )
Reply
“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. “OuiA crisp Friday morning. France has ( ... )
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That was fantastic.
Thank you~
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