[Axis Powers Hetalia] The Heart-Shaped Chocolate Box [FrUK, Implied Others]
Title: The Heart-Shaped Chocolate Box
Author/Artist: lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): FrUK, implied others
Rating: MA
Warnings: Sex, potty mouths
Summary: France gives England a blowjob on Valentine’s Day. Thank you to thenakedcat for the beta.
____________________________
It’s a world meeting like any other. It’s a hotel room with nice white sheets, with air fresheners sucking in odors. It’s a comfy armchair and a book turned down on the side table, spine straining as the pages sag into the wood.
It’s England clawing at the armrests and France loving every minute of it.
Evening, and the sky’s a tie-dye sheet of purple and oranges and pinks. And France is in England’s lap, grinding his hips in a circle against England’s bulge. He’s pulling back, his kisses gentle petals as he tries to avoid England’s teeth and tongue and squeezed-shut eyes.
“I swear, England,” France sighs, not even breathing heavy as he pulls back and shoves a chocolate into England’s mouth, “sometimes I think those teeth shall be the end of my tongue.”
“Sod off,” England snaps, his teeth nicking the tip. No blood, nothing but a faint, painful fuzz that rankles beneath his skin.
France tuts, using his good hand to unbutton England’s shirt. “You need to shut up,” France says, nipping at England’s chin, gliding the flat of his tongue over and beneath England’s Adam’s apple.
“And you’ve got a schedule to keep, don’t you? So many cocks, so little time.”
France frowns. The room goes a bit darker; colors flatten and fade. “Fine. I will make you shut up.”
“I’d like to see you--”
And then France is on him--not his nipple, but close, close, biting and grinding his teeth so that his teeth leave indents where he bites. He seals the red spot with a kiss, covering it with England’s dress shirt.
He makes a line just like it down the faint, pale line where England’s shirt parts to reveal skin. He doesn’t stop until his chin feels the fuzz of pubic hair. Even then he lingers, massaging his own bite even as he reaches up and splays his palm over England’s clothed cock.
England smells nice, down here. Smells nice when he’s overheating inside, and all that heat oozes out in salt and water trickling down his skin. He’s quiet now, shouldering his own heavy breaths. France tries to crystallize this moment, putting it with the other fragments--
He cries out in pain when England grabs his face, shoving it down into his cock. “Will you fucking get on with it!” he snaps, not a request but an order. His syllables are a cracking whip, crisp and distinct and lashing him raw and red.
France grits his teeth. “Fine,” he says. “Fine, then. I shall.”
With a flicker and flurry of fingers, England’s in his hands and ready--zipper undone, the waistline resting right on England’s hipbones. He’s very picky about how far he’ll drop his pants, which just makes France roll his eyes and tug them down when England’s dick jams the back of his throat.
At least England’s dick is nice. France runs his fingertips up it, coaxing it a little harder. Arthur’s always ready for him--so eager, never needing any coaxes or finger-tricks or filthy words. Just upright and waiting, twitching and dribbling clear liquid.
“France will youuuuuuu--”
He sounds ridiculous when France leans in, licking off England’s precome with the tip of his tongue, drawing zig-zags on the underside of his dick. His fingertips press up and in, massaging, gentle pressure to help England along. He takes his time, tasting, closes his eyes, almost imagining England’s smiling, and jiggles his tongue where England’s cockhead begins.
“Yeah,” England sighs, arching his hips, “s’nice, like that.” So he does it again, and again. Just draws little circles where England’s cockhead meets the shaft until he can feel England trembling against his elbows. And then--then--he leans in and wipes his tongue across the slit.
“You like that, don’t you?” England rasps, and France has to reach down and hold England’s hips in place. He glances up at England, his lips pursed around England’s red and swollen cockhead.
England, shrugs, resting his chin in his hands. The dimming twilight adds more red to his blush, his half-lidded eyes and bored expression. “I mean,” England says, “I thought you liked that sort of thing. Being a slag and--fuck!”
France nibbles at England’s slit just a tad harder than intended, and he’ll have a black eye later, perhaps. Just as well. England knows he despises that term--fuck, he’s seen with his own eyes how it kills the mood for France.
Most likely the point, he thinks.
His own erection gone, his body simmering with frustration and loss, he sinks down over England’s cockhead and teases with his teeth. One too-hard nip and England will have a taste of what France feels at this moment. Any harder, and--
Well.
England gets off on the idea, at least, if his labored breathing is any indication.
He puts his tongue to work on the underside of England’s cock as he sinks lower and lower. His hands move from England’s hips to catch his hands and pin them to the armrests. There may be no fireworks for him tonight, no hand jerking him off with hasty, clumsy strokes in the dark, but at least he’ll be able to swallow his food tomorrow.
France wonders if England knows he’s whining now, a faint little trill with every exhale. France can’t be bothered to think about it, really. Deep throating is a delicate art, after all. One that requires him to get lost in England’s curved cock, the smell of seaside air and crashing waves, the way England throbs and pulses in his mouth--
And then England thrusts up with his hips and catches the back of France’s throat by surprise.
France gags, but he doesn’t pull away and he doesn’t struggle when England fists his hair in his fingers and holds him. Holds him while he pounds into France’s mouth and gets slobber everywhere--on the chair, on their pants, all dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t pull away even as England turns the back of his throat into tenderized meat.
“Fuck,” England breathes, “fuck.” And France takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes. For he knows England will come soon, hot and messy down his throat. So he waits for England to die his little death, to have this Valentine’s Day over and done with--
France yelps when England pulls his head back instead, wrenches his neck back hard enough to make it crack a little. And France’s scalp screams with pain as England shoots off all over his face, thick white streams leaving splatters and strands over his eyelids, his nose. Come slithers into his hair from where it splats on the crown of his head.
It’s quiet. They both breathe heavily. The twilight’s gone, and sharp neon and artificial lights peek through the curtains. France stands and takes a tissue when he realizes England’s not offering his handkerchief.
“I hope you like your chocolates,” France says. “It’s--a brand I particularly like, one that--”
“Don’t you have someplace else to be?” England asks, and turns a page in his book. France stares. A chuckle bubbles in the back of his throat. A single swallow and it dies a quiet and dignified death.
“Yes,” France says, smiling. He takes his box of chocolates and tucks them under his arm, smoothing out his shirt so it looks just proper enough. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
He almost looks back when his hand is on the doorknob. Almost.
But England clears his throat as he starts turning his head, and that’s all the warning he needs.
Outside now, back pressed against the door, France rests the back of his head for a moment and looks up at the lights. His entire body needs a good scrubbing, especially his face and hair. It’s as if dirt has crawled into every single one of his pores, clogging him up until he’s bursting with hot emotion and almost-despair.
Almost.
France hugs his box of chocolates to his chest, smiles, and moves on to the next room.
______________________
In case I needed to remind myself that I’m still capable of writing two characters having consensual sexual relations. I’m about as shocked as you all are. ...Anyway, I got it as close to canon as I possibly could, since I just don’t really do humor. At all. So there’s that as well.
Don’t abuse anon, please, or I’m going to turn it off. I encourage you to concrit/crit/whatever me to my face, or at least make a sockpuppet.
Thanks for reading.
Author/Artist: lenarix_klinde
Character(s) or Pairing(s): FrUK, implied others
Rating: MA
Warnings: Sex, potty mouths
Summary: France gives England a blowjob on Valentine’s Day. Thank you to thenakedcat for the beta.
____________________________
It’s a world meeting like any other. It’s a hotel room with nice white sheets, with air fresheners sucking in odors. It’s a comfy armchair and a book turned down on the side table, spine straining as the pages sag into the wood.
It’s England clawing at the armrests and France loving every minute of it.
Evening, and the sky’s a tie-dye sheet of purple and oranges and pinks. And France is in England’s lap, grinding his hips in a circle against England’s bulge. He’s pulling back, his kisses gentle petals as he tries to avoid England’s teeth and tongue and squeezed-shut eyes.
“I swear, England,” France sighs, not even breathing heavy as he pulls back and shoves a chocolate into England’s mouth, “sometimes I think those teeth shall be the end of my tongue.”
“Sod off,” England snaps, his teeth nicking the tip. No blood, nothing but a faint, painful fuzz that rankles beneath his skin.
France tuts, using his good hand to unbutton England’s shirt. “You need to shut up,” France says, nipping at England’s chin, gliding the flat of his tongue over and beneath England’s Adam’s apple.
“And you’ve got a schedule to keep, don’t you? So many cocks, so little time.”
France frowns. The room goes a bit darker; colors flatten and fade. “Fine. I will make you shut up.”
“I’d like to see you--”
And then France is on him--not his nipple, but close, close, biting and grinding his teeth so that his teeth leave indents where he bites. He seals the red spot with a kiss, covering it with England’s dress shirt.
He makes a line just like it down the faint, pale line where England’s shirt parts to reveal skin. He doesn’t stop until his chin feels the fuzz of pubic hair. Even then he lingers, massaging his own bite even as he reaches up and splays his palm over England’s clothed cock.
England smells nice, down here. Smells nice when he’s overheating inside, and all that heat oozes out in salt and water trickling down his skin. He’s quiet now, shouldering his own heavy breaths. France tries to crystallize this moment, putting it with the other fragments--
He cries out in pain when England grabs his face, shoving it down into his cock. “Will you fucking get on with it!” he snaps, not a request but an order. His syllables are a cracking whip, crisp and distinct and lashing him raw and red.
France grits his teeth. “Fine,” he says. “Fine, then. I shall.”
With a flicker and flurry of fingers, England’s in his hands and ready--zipper undone, the waistline resting right on England’s hipbones. He’s very picky about how far he’ll drop his pants, which just makes France roll his eyes and tug them down when England’s dick jams the back of his throat.
At least England’s dick is nice. France runs his fingertips up it, coaxing it a little harder. Arthur’s always ready for him--so eager, never needing any coaxes or finger-tricks or filthy words. Just upright and waiting, twitching and dribbling clear liquid.
“France will youuuuuuu--”
He sounds ridiculous when France leans in, licking off England’s precome with the tip of his tongue, drawing zig-zags on the underside of his dick. His fingertips press up and in, massaging, gentle pressure to help England along. He takes his time, tasting, closes his eyes, almost imagining England’s smiling, and jiggles his tongue where England’s cockhead begins.
“Yeah,” England sighs, arching his hips, “s’nice, like that.” So he does it again, and again. Just draws little circles where England’s cockhead meets the shaft until he can feel England trembling against his elbows. And then--then--he leans in and wipes his tongue across the slit.
“You like that, don’t you?” England rasps, and France has to reach down and hold England’s hips in place. He glances up at England, his lips pursed around England’s red and swollen cockhead.
England, shrugs, resting his chin in his hands. The dimming twilight adds more red to his blush, his half-lidded eyes and bored expression. “I mean,” England says, “I thought you liked that sort of thing. Being a slag and--fuck!”
France nibbles at England’s slit just a tad harder than intended, and he’ll have a black eye later, perhaps. Just as well. England knows he despises that term--fuck, he’s seen with his own eyes how it kills the mood for France.
Most likely the point, he thinks.
His own erection gone, his body simmering with frustration and loss, he sinks down over England’s cockhead and teases with his teeth. One too-hard nip and England will have a taste of what France feels at this moment. Any harder, and--
Well.
England gets off on the idea, at least, if his labored breathing is any indication.
He puts his tongue to work on the underside of England’s cock as he sinks lower and lower. His hands move from England’s hips to catch his hands and pin them to the armrests. There may be no fireworks for him tonight, no hand jerking him off with hasty, clumsy strokes in the dark, but at least he’ll be able to swallow his food tomorrow.
France wonders if England knows he’s whining now, a faint little trill with every exhale. France can’t be bothered to think about it, really. Deep throating is a delicate art, after all. One that requires him to get lost in England’s curved cock, the smell of seaside air and crashing waves, the way England throbs and pulses in his mouth--
And then England thrusts up with his hips and catches the back of France’s throat by surprise.
France gags, but he doesn’t pull away and he doesn’t struggle when England fists his hair in his fingers and holds him. Holds him while he pounds into France’s mouth and gets slobber everywhere--on the chair, on their pants, all dribbling down his chin. He doesn’t pull away even as England turns the back of his throat into tenderized meat.
“Fuck,” England breathes, “fuck.” And France takes a deep breath and shuts his eyes. For he knows England will come soon, hot and messy down his throat. So he waits for England to die his little death, to have this Valentine’s Day over and done with--
France yelps when England pulls his head back instead, wrenches his neck back hard enough to make it crack a little. And France’s scalp screams with pain as England shoots off all over his face, thick white streams leaving splatters and strands over his eyelids, his nose. Come slithers into his hair from where it splats on the crown of his head.
It’s quiet. They both breathe heavily. The twilight’s gone, and sharp neon and artificial lights peek through the curtains. France stands and takes a tissue when he realizes England’s not offering his handkerchief.
“I hope you like your chocolates,” France says. “It’s--a brand I particularly like, one that--”
“Don’t you have someplace else to be?” England asks, and turns a page in his book. France stares. A chuckle bubbles in the back of his throat. A single swallow and it dies a quiet and dignified death.
“Yes,” France says, smiling. He takes his box of chocolates and tucks them under his arm, smoothing out his shirt so it looks just proper enough. “Yes, I suppose I do.”
He almost looks back when his hand is on the doorknob. Almost.
But England clears his throat as he starts turning his head, and that’s all the warning he needs.
Outside now, back pressed against the door, France rests the back of his head for a moment and looks up at the lights. His entire body needs a good scrubbing, especially his face and hair. It’s as if dirt has crawled into every single one of his pores, clogging him up until he’s bursting with hot emotion and almost-despair.
Almost.
France hugs his box of chocolates to his chest, smiles, and moves on to the next room.
______________________
In case I needed to remind myself that I’m still capable of writing two characters having consensual sexual relations. I’m about as shocked as you all are. ...Anyway, I got it as close to canon as I possibly could, since I just don’t really do humor. At all. So there’s that as well.
Don’t abuse anon, please, or I’m going to turn it off. I encourage you to concrit/crit/whatever me to my face, or at least make a sockpuppet.
Thanks for reading.