France sighs. "Oh, cher, there are many worst things than being snowed in, you know."
"Don't remind me, you bastard." England growled. "This is all your fault."
"Mine?" France cried indignantly. "It was definitely you. Those wretched eyebrows have put a curse on my humble home, subjecting us to snowfall."
"Humble? Ha! Your living room probably costs more than my whole house, what with all the needless accessories and décor. Who spends five grand on a couch of all things?"
"I do." France said. "You seem to like it, all you do is sit on it."
"What are you implying?" England snaps. "I'm not America, you know."
"True," France agrees. "But you did raise the little bouboule."
"It's not my fault he turned out the way he is. It was only after the Revolution that he became a self-centred prick… It's all Prussia's fault, so don't fucking blame me, frog."
France sighs. "Mon cher, let us not fight. It's a holiday, non? While we're stuck here, at least we're with each other. Besides, we would have spent the night together anyways."
England glares at him out of the corner of his eye, then exhales. "Sure, fine. It'll be our little Christmas miracle.
"Oh, now that you mention it, I do think that I may have gotten you something," England said offhandedly.
"You did?" France asked, eyes filled with mirth. "Why, Angleterre, I didn't know you cared so."
"You'd be correct," He scowled, going to France's guest bedroom to fetch it. While he usually slept with France for convenience and personal purposes, his luggage was in the spare bedroom.
France gets up too and goes to his room to get England's gift. "Where'd you go?" England yells from the living room, coming back to an empty couch (and a darn good couch it was, as expensive as it has been. France was damn well lucky he had England to appreciate the money he had spent on it.)
"I'm coming!" France yells back as he makes his way back to England. He shows England the gift bag and says, "Got you something too," with a small smile.
England laughs and they switch gift bags. France opens his first, cringing at the contents. It's an ugly cross-stitch sweater with his own (slightly deformed) face sewn in the fabric. "How did you manage this?" He muses. "This, umm, crime to fashion."
"It's amazing what you can do with a simple needle and thread," England smirks.
"I'll wear it everyday," France vows. "Well, everyday I don't leave the house. I have a reputation to uphold, don't you know."
"You arse," England laughs.
"Okay, open mine," France says, nodding towards the bag in question. "I'm sure you'll appreciate it, cher."
England opens it up, nearly choking when he spots the contents. "Well." His brow twitches, a grimace forming on his face. "I'm not sure what I was expecting. Of course, a heartfelt gift would have been to much to ask of you, hmm?"
"I just knew you'd love it!" France exclaims, stifling a laugh.
England takes the phallic object out, regarding it with slight offence. "I can't fucking believe you, honestly. A dildo?"
"It's a vibrator," France corrects.
"Ah."
France looks down at it and before England can move it, France places his hand over his. He looks up to see England looking down at their hands before slowly looking up to meet France's eyes.
It seems like forever that they're staring at each other. France can feel the tension between them and can't take it anymore so he brings his other hand up to grab onto the back of England's neck and crash his lips to his.
England's lips are still against his for a second before he remembers to move them and when he does, oh fuck, does he move them. He runs his hand up France's chest and to his neck to pull him even closer, as his tongue licks at France's lips. It's a clash of tongues as they let the other one in, tasting and savoring each others mouths.
France pulls England closer until England has no other choice but to climb onto his lap and straddle him. Both of his hands in France's hair, tugging him forward. Grinding into him, making them both lose their minds.
England groans against France's lips, moving away to say, "Bedroom. Now."
France rolls his eyes. "Why so vanilla, Angleterre? What's wrong with doing it here?"
"On your multi-million dollar couch?!"
"Oh, stop it. It wasn't that much."
France wraps his arms around his lover, pulling him closer. England is so warm for a country that's raining all the time, and France is burning up. He kisses him deeply, swallowing any complaints England would surely spout just for the sake of complaining.
England trails his hands up France's shirt, unbuttoning it carefully but wanting to rip it off. "I guess I'll have to indulge you, won't I."
France grabs onto the waistband of England's trousers and reaches into his briefs, rubbing circles onto England's most sensitive area. With a bit of easing, he manages to tug England's pants down, underwear and all. France licks his lips before looking back up to meet England's eyes. England's eyes are just as lustful; he pushes France slightly till he falls back onto the couch. England straddles his lap again. France holds onto him as he moves back up the bed, back against the armrest.
"Take this off," England mumbles against France's lips as his hands try to tug his pants off. The fire roars across from them. England's almost tempted to stoke the flames with France's extravagant pair of designer Givenchy's. Hedonistic bastard.
France chuckles and lifts England off of him so he can scramble out of his pants. France hovers over England and kisses him once making England chuckle. France trails kisses down England's body, savouring the feel of his skin on his lips and the taste of him on his tongue.
"Francis, none of this shit now, just get on with it," England fusses.
"No hurry, cher. There's no hurry." France reminds him, running a hand through England's hair.
France reaches over to open the drawers underneath coffee table to search for the necessary supplies. You can never be to prepared.
"Eh? No, no, you don't need to prep me every time, fuck. Just leave it," England says. "Do you know how loose my arse is after all the treatment you've given it?"
"Romantic," France sighs at his lover's brusqueness. "Just let me stretch you, it's a been a month since either of us have done this… Well, I assume as such."
"Oh, get lost, frog, you know I wouldn't cheat on you, god."
France hums, squeezing the translucent liquid into his hand, rubbing his fingers together to spread it. "Position?"
"I suppose you can just have me on my back," and England settles on the couch so it's possible.
Not soon after, France is sliding slender fingers inside of him, impatient to be inside of his lover. Still, out of common courtesy he tries to make sure England enjoys himself, and soon the ex-empire is a groaning mess. France isn't missing out either: precome dripping onto the furniture in his desire. He may have cared a bit more had his mind been clearer. England had a way of intoxicating him beyond the levels of any alcohol. (Although he couldn't say the same for his lightweight lover.)
Finally, France slips the condom on and pushes his way into England's tight heat.
They both moan out loud at the feeling. England winds his arms around France's neck, pulling him closer so he can kiss him, to drown his moans into his mouth. Oh, France could never get enough of the marvellous feeling of skin-on-skin, of being connected by pure intimacy and love.
There's always been a strong feeling of rivalry between them; a battle of dominance if you will. Obviously, France was usually the one asserting his authority in the bedroom (not to say there weren't a few times England had turned him into a wanton mess, no, there had been plenty of that-). Simply put, they each found something indubitably hot about doing their former enemy up the ass.
France picks up the pace, aiming and timing his thrusts in a way that has England crying out, hands clawing knees tightening. They pick up a rhythm, meeting each other's onset halfway. France grants England the liberty of wrapping a hand around his cock, pumping up and down and teasing delicious noises out of him. France eats them right up.
In a matter of minutes, they're both coming hard.
France rests his forehead against England's as they pant, trying to regain their breaths. "That was good," England says. "Could have been better. You get extra points for jerking me off."
France lets out a short laugh. "Why do you always feel the need to grade me on my performance?" He asks rhetorically, rolling off of him and disposing of the condom.
"Has the snow stopped yet?" England asks leaning on his elbow, not-so-subtly checking France out. Hey, he has a right to admire what's his, damn it.
"You wish to get rid of me so soon?" France teases, not getting dressed yet. Sure, he could get hypothermia, technically speaking, but there was a chance of England being up for another round. That opportunity might go away should he get dressed, and he wasn't taking any chances. (That and maybe he liked the way England looked at him more than he should).
England shrugs, already craving a post-coital smoke, a second round even more. "Hmm, I'm cold. You should come over here and warm me up." He sends a sultry look at the Frenchman, spreading his legs.
"Already?" France walks back over to England, making himself at home inbetween the blond's thighs. "Such a slut."
"Well isn't that just the pot calling the kettle black," England says pleasantly. He always appears nicer after a good 'shag'. He looks just fine too. France could get used to an England with disheveled hair and pink cheeks, maybe a few hickies here or there…
"You ready to go again or do you need some time," England says, rubbing France back into use. He's already half hard again.
"Ten minutes, give or take."
"Oh fuck off, I want it now."
"You could do me this time?" France offers.
"No, I want something up my arse," England pauses, then his lips twist into a half-smile. "I've got it. Francis, go run and grab me that dildo – err, vibrator."
A smirk that could only be described as perverted twisted it's way onto France's mouth, "ohonhonhon"s spilling out of it. The odd laughs follow him as he practically sprints to the bedroom.
"Creep," England says fondly.
After several minutes, Francis is back, armed with watermelon flavoured lubrication and the artificial penis. He makes a bit of a show of twirling the toy around playfully, running his hands around it in a way that had to be intentional. England's groin stirs with interest.
France places the device atop the table, pulling England in for another kiss. England's hand instinctively go to France's waist, who in turns grips England by a clump of hair at the back of his neck.
Ending the kiss but not pulling away, France tastes England's cheek, chin, neck, leaving his mark on the tender pale skin.
"Hey, y-you," England pants. "Under the Adam's apple, under the fucking Adam's apple. Or better yet, my – ohh – collarbone. I don't feel like wearing a turtleneck and a scarf, thanks."
"It's winter, no one will suspect a thing," France mumbles against England's flesh. But he ceases his activities, just because England's letting him use his present on him. France makes use of England's lips again, said blond climbing onto his lap so they can grind against each other.
They make out like teenagers in love; desperate and wild until they're so hard it hurts and panting harshly into each other's mouths. England's the one who ends it, spreading France's legs. He grins slyly then mimics France in an exaggerated show of open-mouthed kisses and sweet touches down his body.
France watches with bated breath, wondering if he was the one that would be taking the toy and not minding in the slightest.
England lets his appreciation for France's earlier services show when he gets to France's hard, leaking cock. Sucking dick isn't his favourite thing in the world (or rather, the smell isn't his favourite thing in the world). But he knows how much France loves being on the receiving end so he just hold his nose and opens his mouth.
"Mmmf," France moans, saying something in French. England never learnt how to speak French, mostly out of spite. He know what France said anyway.
England takes as much of France's length as possible. But unfortunately, he's not a cock-sucking champion like America. His gag reflex twinges in discomfort, so he pulls back and licks a stripe up the side. France doesn't seem to mind.
Deciding to put his hands to good use, England strokes the part of France's cock that he can't reach, fondling his balls as well.
After a few blissful moments, France signals for England to stop before he goes over the edge for the second time. He takes the time my admire how England looks like that, lips red and swollen with precome painted on like lipgloss. It's a bad analogy, but England's always been better than him with those things.
"We should retire to the rug, in front of the fire," France says. "My feet are cold."
England scoffs, then lets out a sound of surprise when he's lifted like a child. "I can walk," he protests.
"No you can't," France says. "Well, you won't be able to after I'm finished with you."
They share a mischievous look. "Is that a promise or a threat?"
"All is in the eye of the beholder," France grabs the vibrator, twirling it around. "Are you ready?"
England agrees, so France spreads some lube on the vibrator, then positions it against England's hole. He traces over the puckered bud, up and down and around, frustrating England to no end.
"Get on with it," England growls, moving his hips. France quietens him with a soft nip to his hip, then starts inching the plastic into England. France wields the object with an expertise found only in seasoned professionals, not taking his chances with tearing something inside England. (And, consequently, not be able to top for at least a decade. Yes, France did speak from experience.)
"Fuck," England is so hot, in more ways than one; warmth from the feeling of his prostate and lower regions being pleasured mixing with the heat from the fire and all over his skin. France is also especially hot from in beneath his thighs, his long tresses sticking to his forehead and sweat slick glistening on his chest.
"You're so handsome, cher. I could watch you like this all day."
"I could say the – uhhh – the same for you," England says coyly, wriggling a bit. France pulls the toy out then thrusts back in, just as he would have with his own penis, if not a little more accurately.
"Yeah… Yeah, right there. Don't fucking move," England pants. France is almost tempted to stop moving altogether, but resists. No use in needlessly pissing England off, not while fucking. He holds the toy steady, then flicks a switch.
The result is instantaneous. England arches his back with a moan, crying out something intelligible. His legs come up to wrap around France's torso, but France shakes them off. It's terribly hard to control the toy whilst being jostled about.
England's falling apart. His thighs tremble, hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. Each vibration sparks a full-body reaction, from the tips of his hair to the flexed toes. He can feel it thrumming up his stomach, grasping his entire being in paralysing pleasure.
"Oh," he puffs. "Oh, yes."
It's sort of like an itch he didn't know he had was being scratched. England kind of wishes France was actually screwing him, but this wasn't half bad.
Giving into his own desires, England roughly digs his nails into France's skin when the toy is cranked up another notch. He shudders and finds himself spilling all over his and France's stomach's embarrassingly early. Oh well, he'd just smack France if he dared to make a comment.
France kisses England's shoulder, then his lips. "How was that?"
England shrugs, wincing as his spine cracked a bit. "I'm all stiff now, look what you've done." He takes a moment to stretch fully, groaning in appreciation. Noting the thinly masked look of disappointment on France's face, he pecks his lips again.
"But it wasn't so bad. Well. I wouldn't object to it happening again. But I would like to be the one brandishing a vibrator next time."
"Hmm," France says, intertwining their fingers. "You know, I do believe that were quite trapped in here."
"Oh?" England looks up in interest.
"Yes, there will be heavy snowfall until a day or two before New Year's."
"… You don't say?"
"So, we're completely trapped in here for another five days, at least."
"Uh-huh."
"What on earth should we do with all that time, Arthur?"
The two smirked at each other, eyes glinting with newfound lust. "Well, we'd better make the best of it..." England let the sentence trail off, tackling France to the ground.
The two did not see sunlight until 2016.
fin.