Notes: What is this, I don't even—guys, I'm sorry. I was just in the mood to write this, it's been stuck in my head forever. Happy reading!
There is celery in the kitchen somewhere. That's all Spain can think about even with France pounding into him like it's the only thing worth living for; which to France, might actually be the case. Even with his pupils dilating, heart pounding, and body temperature rising, all Spain can tastesmelltouchthink is celery. Behind him, France is making that odd little wheezing noise that he always makes when he's oh-so-close but not quite and, still, Spain can only concentrate on celery, can't even focus on the fact that his hips are getting smashed into the counter mercilessly.
Spain very much dislikes celery. He would say that he hates it but he wouldn't want to hurt the little vegetable's feelings; after all, all vegetables are precious in Spain's eyes. Although, Spain thinks, even as France continues to tweak his nipple this way and that, it does taste alright when it's in a Bloody Mary. It's just everything about celery that offends all of Spain's Spanish sensibilities. The taste, the texture, the smell… especially the smell. Dios y su madre, the smell bothers him like no other smell and he can't— he can't think about this anymore. He's grinding back against France like a bitch in heat because France just found that spot inside of him that turns great sex into fantastic sex and he's at the end of his rope.
Now they're really going at it. France's fingers, pale as sin, are leaving bruises on his hips that will take too long to heal and Spain is practically sobbing into the polished granite of the kitchen counter. Oh, shit. It's too much, and it's too good, and it's too fast.
Behind him, France is slipping between French and English and groans that sound like cross between a seasoned prostitute and a hurt animal. Just like that, Spain's coming so hard he sees white behind his eyes and scratching at the counter top for purchase, howling and proclaiming his undying love for his neighbor to the northeast in at least three different languages. He comes so hard that there's some in his hair and he's pretty sure that's the hardest he's ever come.
France shoves his hips forward one, two, three, four more times before coming with a breathy mewl. Still, with France' come dripping out of him slowly, he can only concentrate on the smell of celery that is now permeating the air. It seems stronger now and it's really starting to drive the Spaniard crazy. Where is it coming from? Why does it seem so strong now? Spain is too spent to move to look for it but he's not to spent to muster up a vindictive promise to find and dispose of it.
He hears France sniffing the air like a dog behind him. Belatedly, it takes Spain a second to realize that France must be smelling the same thing.
"Do you smell celery?" France asks him, panting a little.
"Sí. No me gusta el apio. The smell has been driving me crazy." Spain says, looking around blearily to try and locate where the smell is coming from. He doesn't know what he's going to do that awful vegetable when he finds it but he is very confident that it will be very terrible.
Apium graveolens is the binomial, scientific name of celery. The more you know, baby.
Notes & Translations:
Dios y su madre-God and his mother
Sí. No me gusta el apio- Yes. I dislike celery.